THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


<-H 


SOUTHERN  BRANCh., 

iJNIVERSlTY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 

iLOS  ANGELES,  CALIF. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

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KpUal  (Kmtton 

THE  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

IN  TEN  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  V 


POEMS 

1806-1815 


Rydal  Mount 
Wordsworth's  home  from  isis  until  his  death  in  isso 


THE  COMPLETE  POETICAL 
WORKS  OF 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


V 

1806-1815 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  I\HFFLIN  COMPANY 

1919 

50036 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  IDIO,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

r 


V.  -3 


CONTENTS 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior        .        .       Page  3 

The  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle     ....  8 

A  Complaint 13 

Stray  Pleasures 14 

Power  of  Music 17 

Star-gazers 20 

"Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo"        ...  23 

"Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room"  25 

Personal  Talk 26 

Admonition 30 

"Beloved  Vale!"   I  said,   "when  I  shall  con"  31 

"How  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  Fancy  rocks"  32 

"Those  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood"  33 

Composed  by  the  side  of  Grasmere  Lake    .        .  34 

"With  how  sad  steps,  0  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the 

sky"             35 

f  V   ] 


CONTENTS 

"The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon"  36 
"With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh"  37 
"Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must 

GO?" 38 

To  Sleep 39 

To  Sleep 40 

To  Sleep   .        .        . 41 

Two  Translations  from  Michael  Angelo,  and  a 
Translation    from    the    Latin    of    Thomas 

Warton 42 

From  the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo  .        .        43 

From  the  Same 44 

To  THE  Memory  of  Raisley  Calvert  ...  45 
"Methought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne"  46 
Lines  composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  walk  one 
Evening,  after  a  stormy  day,  the  Author 
having  just  read  in  a  newspaper  that  the 
dissolution  of  Mr.  Fox  was  hourly  ex- 
pected .         . 47 

November  1806 49 

I    vi  1 


CONTENTS 

Address  to  a  Child,  during  a  boisterous  winter 

Evening.    By  my  Sister 50 

Ode.  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recol- 
lections OF  Early  Childhood  ...        52 

A  Prophecy.    February  1807 63 

Thought   of  a   Briton   on   the   Subjugation  of 

Switzerland 64 

To  Thomas  Clarkson,  on  the  Final  Passing  of 
THE  Bill   for  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave 

Trade 65 

The  Mother's  Return.    By  my  Sister  ...        66 

Gipsies 69 

*'0  Nightingale!  thou  surely  art"      ...        71 

To  Lady  Beaumont 72 

"Though  narrow  be  that  old  Man's  cares,  and 

near" 73 

Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  upon 
the  Restoration  of  Lord  Clifford,  the 
Shepherd,  to  the  Estates  and  Honours  of 

his  Ancestors 75 

[  vii  ] 


CONTENTS 

The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone;  or,  The  Fate  of 

the  nortons 

The   Force   of   Prayer;    or.   The   Founding   of 
Bolton  Priory.    A  Tradition  .        .        .        . 
Composed   while   the   Author   was   engaged   in 
Writing  a  Tract   occasioned    by   the   Con- 
vention OF  Cintra    

Composed  at  the  same  Time  and  on  the  same 

Occasion 

George  and  Sarah  Green       

HOFFER 

"Advance  —  come    forth    from    thy    Tyrolean 

ground"      

Feelings  of  the  Tyrolese      .... 
"Alas!  what  boots  the  long  laborious  quest' 
"And  is  it  among  rude  untutored  Dales" 
"O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  pi^in' 
On  the  Final  Submission  of  the  Tyrolese 
"Hail,  Zaragoza!    If  with  unwet  eye" 
"Say,  what  is  Honour?  —  'T  is  the  finest  sense' 


83 


166 


170 

171 

172 
174 

175 
176 
177 
178 
179 
180 
181 
182 


vm 


CONTENTS 

"The  martial  courage  of  a  day  is  vain"  .  .  183 
"Brave  Schill!    by  death  delivered,  take  thy 

flight"        ........  184 

"Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate"  .  185 
"Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hath 

paid" 186 

"Is  there  a  power  that  can  sustain  and  cheer"  187 

"Ah!  where  is  Palafox?    Nor  tongue  nor  pen"  188 

"In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite"  .  .  189 
Feelings  of  a  Noble  Biscayan  at  one  of  those 

Funerals 190 

On  a  celebrated  Event  in  Ancient  History       .  191 

Upon  the  same  Event 192 

The  Oak  of  Guernica 193 

Indignation  of  a  high-minded  Spaniard        .         .  194 

"avaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind "      .        .  195 

"O'erweening  Statesmen  have  full  long  relied"  19G 

The  French  and  the  Spanish  Guerillas      .        .  197 

Epitaphs  translated  from  Chiabrera  — 

"Weep  not,  beloved  Friends!  nor  let  the  air"  .  198 
f  ix  ] 


CONTENTS 

"Perhaps   some   needful   service   of   the  State"  199 

"O  Thou  who  movest  onward  with  a  mind"        .  200 

"There  never  breathed  a  man  who,  when  his  Hfe"  201 

"True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  SaUnero"    .          .         .  202 

"Destined  to  war  from  very  infancj'"           .         .  203 

"0  fiower  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood"    .  204 

"Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  He"          .  205 

"Pause,  courteous  Spirit!  —  Balbi  supplicates"   .  206 

Maternal  Grief 207 

Characteristics  of  a  Child  three  Years  old  .  211 

Spanish  Guerillas 213 

"The  power  of  Armies  is  a  visible  thing"         .  214 
"Here    pause:   the    poet   claims   at   least   this 

praise" 215 

Epistle  to  Sir  George  Rowland  Beaumont,  Bart. 
From  the  Southwest  Coast  of  Cumber- 
land   216 

Upon    perusing    the    foregoing    Epistle    thirty 

YEARS   after    ITS    COMPOSITION     .  .  .  .231 

[    X    ] 


CONTENTS 

Upon  the  sight  of  a  Beautiful  Picture,  painted 

BY  Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  Bart.        .        .        .      232 

Inscriptions  — 

In  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton,  the  Seat  of  Sir 
George  Beaumont,  Bart.,  Leicestershire       .         .       234! 

In  a  Garden  of  the  Same 235 

Written  at  the  Request  of  Sir  George  Beaumont, 
Bart.,  and  in  his  Name,  for  an  Urn,  placed  by  him 
at  the  Termination  of  a  newly-planted  Avenue, 
in  the  same  Grounds    ......       236 

For  a  Seat  in  the  Groves  of  Coleorton  .  .  .  237 
Song  for  the  Spinning-Wheel.    Founded  upon  a 

Belief  prevalent  among  the  Pastoral  Vales 

of  Westmoreland 239 

Composed  on  the  eve  of  the  Marriage  of  a  Friend 

in  the  Vale  of  Grasmere        .        .         .         .241 

Water-Fowl 242 

View  from  the  top  of  Black  Comb  .  .  .  244 
Written  with  a  Slate  Pencil  on  a  Stone,  on  the 

Side  of  the  Mountain  of  Black  Comb    .        .      246 

November  1813 248 

[  xi  1 


CONTENTS 

Laodamia 249 

Dion  (see  Plutarch) 257 

Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Scotland,  1814  —         .      263 

1.  Suggested  by  a  beautiful  ruin  upon  one  of  the 
Islands  of  Loch  Lomond,  a  place  chosen  for 
the  retreat  of  a  solitary  individual,  from 
whom  this  habitation  acquired  the  name  of 

The  Brownie's  Cell 2G4 

2.  Composed  at  Cora  Linn,  in  sight  of  Wal- 
lace's Tower 269 

3.  Effusion  in  the  Pleasure-ground  on  the 
banks  of  the  Bran,   near  Dunkeld      .         .       272 

4.  Yarrow  Visited,  September  1814  .  .  .278 
"From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed"  283 
Lines  written  on  a  Blank  Leaf  in  a  Copy  of  the 

Author's  Poem  "The  Excursion,"  upon  hear- 
ing  OF    the   Death   of  the   late   Vicar   of 


Kendal 

.       285 

To  B.  R.  Haydon     .... 

.       286 

Artegal  and  Elidure 

.       287 

September  1815         .... 

.       298 

November  1       

.       299 

xn 


CONTENTS 

"The  fairest,  brightest  hues   of   ether  fade"  300 

"Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind"  30;2 
"Hail,    Twilight,    sovereign    of    one    peaceful 

hour!" 303 

"The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said"  304 

"Even  as  a  dragon's  eye  that  feels  the  stress"  305 

"Mark  the  concentred  hazels  that  enclose"    .  306 

To  THE  Poet,  John  Dyer        .....  308 

"Brook!  whose  society  the  Poet  seeks"     .         .  309 

"Surprised   by   joy  —  impatient   as   the   Wind"  310 


POEMS 

1806-1815 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

1806     1807 

The  course  of  the  great  war  with  the  French  naturally  fixed 
one's  attention  upon  the  military  character  and,  to  the  honour 
of  our  country,  there  were  many  illustrious  instances  of  the 
qualities  that  constitute  its  highest  excellence.  Lord  Nelson 
carried  most  of  the  virtues  that  the  trials  he  was  exposed  to  in 
his  department  of  the  service  necessarily  call  forth  and  sus- 
tain, if  they  do  not  produce  the  contrary  vices.  But  his  public 
life  was  stained  with  one  great  crime,  so  that,  though  many 
passages  of  these  lines  were  suggested  by  what  was  generally 
known  as  excellent  in  his  conduct,  I  have  not  been  able  to  con- 
nect his  name  with  the  poem  as  I  could  wish,  or  even  to  think 
of  him  with  satisfaction  in  reference  to  the  idea  of  what  a 
warrior  ought  to  be.  For  the  sake  of  such  of  my  friends  as  may 
happen  to  read  this  note  I  will  add,  that  many  elements  of  the 
character  here  pourtrayed  were  found  in  my  brother  John, 
who  perished  by  shipwreck  as  mentioned  elsewhere.  His  mess- 
mates used  to  call  him  the  Philosopher,  from  which  it  must  be 
inferred  that  the  qualities  and  dispositions  I  allude  to  had  not 
escaped  their  notice.  He  often  expressed  his  regret,  after  the 
war  had  continued  some  time,  that  he  had  not  chosen  the 
Naval,  instead  of  the  East  India  Company's  service,  to  which 
his  family  connection  had  led  him.  He  greatly  valued  moral 
and  religious  instruction  for  youth,  as  tending  to  make  good 
sailors.    The  best,  he  u.scd  to  say,  came  from  Scotland;  the 

[31 


CHARACTER   OF   THE    HAPPY   WARRIOR 

next  to  them,  from  the  North  of  England,  especially  from 
Westmoreland  and  Cumberland,  where,  thanks  to  the  piety 
and  local  attachments  of  our  ancestors,  endowed,  or,  as  they 
are  commonly  called,  free,  schools  abound. 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?  Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 
—  It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  hfe,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought: 
Whose  high  endeavours  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright: 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care; 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives: 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate; 
Is  placable  —  because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice; 
I  4  ] 


CHARACTER   OF   THE   HAPPY   WARRIOR 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 
As  tempted  more;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

—  'T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends; 
Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill. 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest. 
He  labours  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows: 

—  Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command. 
Rises  by  open  means;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honourable  terms,  or  else  retire. 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim; 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 
For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state; 
Whom  they  must  follow;  on  whose  head  must  fall. 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 
Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace; 
But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
[5  ] 


CHARACTER   OF   THE    HAPPY   WARRIOR 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind. 
Is  happy  as  a  Lover;  and  attired 
With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw; 
Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 
—  He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence. 
Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes; 
Sweet  images!  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve; 
More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love :  — 
'T  is,  finally,  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high. 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 
Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity,  — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot. 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not  — 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won : 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay. 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  l)etray ; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 
f  (i  1 


CHARACTER   OF   THE   HAPPY   WARRIOR 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 

For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 

Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame. 

And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name  — 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause  o 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior;  this  is  He 

That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 


[7] 


THE  HORN  OF  EGREMONT^  CASTLE 

1806     1807 

A  tradition  transferred  from  the  ancient  mansion  of  Ilutton 
John,  the  seat  of  the  Hudlestons,  to  Egremont  Castle. 

Ere  the  Brothers  through  the  gateway 

Issued  forth  with  old  and  young, 

To  the  Horn  Sir  Eustace  pointed 

Which  for  ages  there  had  hung. 

Horn  it  was  which  none  could  sound, 

No  one  upon  living  ground, 

Save  He  who  came  as  rightful  Heir 

To  Egremont's  Domains  and  Castle  fair. 

Heirs  from  times  of  earliest  record 

Had  the  House  of  Lucie  born, 

Who  of  right  had  held  the  Lordship 

Claimed  by  proof  upon  the  Horn: 

Each  at  the  a{)pointcd  hour 

Tried  the  Horn,  —  it  owned  his  power; 

He  was  acknowledged :  and  the  blast. 

Which  good  Sir  Eustace  sounded,  was  the  last. 

With  his  lance  Sir  Eustace  pointed. 
And  to  Hubert  thus  said  he, 

[  8  1 


THE   HORN   OF    EGREMONT   CASTLE 

"  What  I  speak  this  Horn  shall  witness 

For  thy  better  memory. 

Hear,  then,  and  neglect  me  not! 
-  At  this  time,  and  on  this  spot. 

The  words  are  uttered  from  my  heart. 

As  my  last  earnest  prayer  ere  we  depart. 

"On  good  service  we  are  going 
Life  to  risk  by  sea  and  land. 
In  which  course  if  Christ  our  Saviour 
Do  my  sinful  soul  demand. 
Hither  come  thou  back  straightway, 
Hubert,  if  alive  that  day; 
Return,  and  sound  the  Horn,  that  we 
May  have  a  living  House  still  left  in  thee!" 

"Fear  not,"  quickly  answered  Hubert; 

"As  I  am  thy  Father's  son, 
What  thou  askest,  noble  Brother, 
With  God's  favour  shall  be  done." 
So  were  both  right  well  content: 
Forth  they  from  the  Castle  went, 
And  at  the  head  of  their  Array 
To  Palestine  the  Brothers  took  their  way. 

Side  by  side  they  fought  (the  Lucies 
Were  a  line  for  valour  famed), 
f  9  1 


THE   HORN   OF   EGREMONT    CASTLE 

And  where'er  their  strokes  alighted, 

There  the  Saracens  were  tamed. 

Whence,  then,  could  it  come  —  the  thought  — 

By  what  evil  spirit  brought? 

Oh!  can  a  brave  Man  wish  to  take 

His  Brother's  life,  for  Lands'  and  Castle's  sake  ? 

"Sir!"  the  Ruffians  said  to  Hubert, 
"Deep  he  lies  in  Jordan  flood." 

Stricken  by  this  ill  assurance. 

Pale  and  trembling  Hubert  stood. 
"Take  your  earnings."  —  Oh!  that  I 

Could  have  seen  my  Brother  die ! 

It  was  a  pang  that  vexed  him  then; 

And  oft  returned,  again,  and  yet  again. 

Months  passed  on,  and  no  Sir  Eustace! 

Nor  of  him  were  tidings  heard; 

Wherefore,  bold  as  day,  the  Murderer 

Back  again  to  England  steered. 

To  his  Castle  Hubert  sped; 

Nothing  has  he  now  to  dread. 

But  silent  and  by  stealth  he  came. 

And  at  an  hour  which  nobody  could  name. 

None  could  tell  if  it  were  night-time. 
Night  or  day,  at  even  or  m;v.ii; 
I  10] 


THE    HORN   OF   EGREMONT    CASTLE 

No  one's  eye  had  seen  him  enter, 

No  one's  ear  had  heard  the  Horn. 

But  bold  Hubert  hves  in  glee: 

Months  and  years  went  smiHngly; 

With  plenty  was  his  table  spread; 

And  bright  the  Lady  is  who  shares  his  bed. 

Likewise  he  had  sons  and  daughters; 

And,  as  good  men  do,  he  sate 

At  his  board  by  these  surrounded. 

Flourishing  in  fair  estate. 

And  while  thus  in  open  day 

Once  he  sate,  as  old  books  say, 

A  blast  was  uttered  from  the  Horn, 

Where  by  the  Caslle-gate  it  hung  forlorn. 

'T  is  the  breath  of  good  Sir  Eustace ! 

He  is  come  to  claim  his  right : 

Ancient  castle,  woods,  and  mountains 

Hear  the  challenge  with  delight. 

Hubert!  though  the  blast  be  blown 

He  is  helpless  and  alone: 

Thou  hast  a  dungeon,  speak  the  word ! 

And  there  he  may  be  lodged,  and  thou  be  Lord. 

Speak!  —  astounded  Hubert  cannot; 
And,  if  power  to  speak  he  had, 
f  11  1 


THE   HORN   OF   EGREMONT    CASTLE 

All  are  daunted,  all  the  household 

Smitten  to  the  heart,  and  sad. 

'T  is  Sir  Eustace;  if  it  be 

Living  man,  it  must  be  he! 

Thus  Hubert  thought  in  his  dismay. 

And  by  a  postern-gate  he  slunk  away. 

Long,  and  long  was  he  unheard  of: 

To  his  Brother  then  he  came, 

Made  confession,  asked  forgiveness. 

Asked  it  by  a  brother's  name, 

And  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven; 

And  of  Eustace  was  forgiven: 

Then  in  a  convent  went  to  hide 

His  melancholy  head,  and  there  he  died. 

But  Sir  Eustace,  whom  good  angels 
Had  preserved  from  murderers'  hands, 
And  from  Pagan  chains  had  rescued, 
Lived  with  honour  on  his  lands. 
Sons  he  had,  saw  sons  of  theirs: 
And  through  ages,  heirs  of  heirs, 
A  long  posterity  renowned, 
Sounded  the  Horn  which  they  alone  could 
sound. 


12 


A  COMPLAINT 

1806     1807 

Written  at  Town-end.  Grasmere.    Suggested  by  a  change 
in  the  manner  of  a  friend. 

There  is  a  change  —  and  I  am  poor; 
Your  love  hath  been,  not  long  ago, 
A  fountain  at  my  fond  heart's  door. 
Whose  only  business  was  to  flow; 
And  flow  it  did :  not  taking  heed 
Of  its  own  bounty,  or  my  need. 

What  happy  moments  did  I  count! 
Blest  was  I  then  all  bliss  above! 
Now,  for  that  consecrated  fount 
Of  murmuring,  sparkling,  living  love, 
What  have  I.^  shali  I  dare  to  tell.' 
A  comfortless  and  hidden  well. 

A  well  of  love  —  it  may  be  deep  — 
I  trust  it  is,  —  and  never  drj^ : 
What  matter?  if  the  waters  sleep 
In  silence  and  obscurity. 
—  Such  change,  and  at  the  very  door 
Of  my  fond  heart,  hath  made  me  poor. 
[  13  1 


STRAY  PLEASURES 

1806     1807 

*' Pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 

In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find." 

Suggested  on  the  Thames  by  the  sight  of  one  of  those  float- 
ing mills  that  used  to  be  seen  there.  This  I  noticed  on  the 
Surrey  side  between  Somerset  House  and  Blackfriars  Bridge. 
Charles  Lamb  was  with  me  at  the  time;  and  I  thought  it  re- 
markable that  I  should  have  to  point  out  to  him,  an  idolatrous 
Londoner,  a  sight  so  interesting  as  the  happy  group  dancing  on 
the  platform.  Mills  of  this  kind  used  to  be,  and  perhaps  still 
are,  not  uncommon  on  the  Continent.  I  noticed  several  upon 
tlie  river  Saone  in  the  year  1799,  particularly  near  the  town  of 
Chalons,  where  my  friend  Jones  and  I  halted  a  day  when  we 
crossed  France;  so  far  on  foot:  there  we  embarked,  and  floated 
down  to  Lyons. 

By  their  iBoating  mill. 

That  lies  dead  and  still, 
Behold  yon  Prisoners  three, 
The    Miller   with   two   Dames,  on   the   breast  of   tlic 

Thames ! 
The  platform  is  small,  but  gives  room  for  them  all; 
And  they're  dancing  merrily. 

From  the  shore  come  the  notes 
To  their  mill  where  it  floats, 
1  It  1 


STRAY   PLEASURES 

To  their  house  and  their  mill  tethered  fast: 
To  the  small  wooden  isle  where,  their  work  to  beguile, 
They  from  morning  to  even  take  whatever  is  given ;  — 
And  many  a  blithe  day  they  have  past. 

In  sight  of  the  spires, 

All  alive  with  the  fires 
Of  the  sun  going  down  to  his  rest. 
In  the  broad  open  eye  of  the  solitary  sky. 
They  dance,  —  there  are  three,  as  jocund  as  free, 
While  they  dance  on  the  calm  river's  breast. 

Man  and  Maidens  wheel. 

They  themselves  make  the  reel. 
And  their  music's  a  prey  which  they  seize; 
It  plays  not  for  them,  —  what  matter?  't  is  theirs; 
And  if  they  had  care,  it  has  scattered  their  cares, 
While  they  dance,  crying,  "Long  as  ye  please!" 

They  dance  not  for  me. 

Yet  mine  is  their  glee! 
Thus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 
In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find;' 
Thus  a  rich  loving-kindness,  redundantly  kind, 
Moves  all  Nature  to  gladness  and  mirth. 


[  15 


STRAY   PLEASURES 

The  showers  of  the  spring 
Rouse  the  birds,  and  they  sing; 

If  the  wind  do  but  stir  for  his  proper  dehght, 

Each  leaf,  that  and  this,  his  neighbour  will  kiss; 

Each  wave,  one  and  t'other,  speeds  after  his  brother: 

They  are  happy,  for  that  is  their  right ! 


16 


POWER  OF  MUSIC 

1806     1807 

Taken  from  life. 

An  Orpheus !  an  Orpheus !  yes,  Faith  may  grow  bold, 
And  take  to  herself  all  the  wonders  of  old ;  — 
Near  the  stately  Pantheon  you'll  meet  with  the  same 
In  the  street  that  from  Oxford  hath  borrowed  its  name. 

His  station  is  there;  and  he  works  on  the  crowd. 
He  sways  them  with  harmony  merry  and  loud; 
He  fills  with  his  power  all  their  hearts  to  the  brim  — 
Was  aught  ever  heard  like  his  fiddle  and  him? 

What  an  eager  assembly !  what  an  empire  is  this ! 
The  weary  have  life,  and  the  hungry  have  bliss; 
The  mourner  is  cheered,  and  the  anxious  have  rest ; 
And  the  guilt-burthened  soul  is  no  longer  opprest. 

As  the  Moon  brightens  round  her  the  clouds  of  the 

night. 
So  He,  where  he  stands,  is  a  centre  of  light; 
It  gleams  on  the  face,  there,  of  dusky-browed  .Jack, 
And  the  pale-visaged  Baker's,  with  basket  on  back. 

[  17  ] 


POWER   OF   MUSIC 

That  errand-bound  'Prentice  was  passing  in  haste  — 
What  matter !  he 's  caught  —  and  his  time  runs  to  waste; 
The  Newsman  is  stopped,  though  he  stops  on  the  fret; 
And  the  half-breathless  Lamplighter  —  he 's  in  the  net ! 

The  Porter  sits  down  on  the  weight  which  he  bore; 
The  Lass  with  her  barrow  wheels  hither  her  store;  — 
If  a  thief  could  be  here  he  might  pilfer  at  ease; 
She  sees  the  Musician,  't  is  all  that  she  sees! 

He  stands,  backed  by  the  wall; — ^he  abates  not  his  din; 
His  hat  gives  him  vigour,  with  boons  dropping  in, 
From  the  old  and  the  young,  from  the  poorest;  and  there ! 
The  one-pennied  Boy  has  his  penny  to  spare. 

0  blest  are  the  hearers,  and  proud  be  the  hand 

Of  the  pleasure  it  spreads  through  so  thankful  a  band; 

1  am  glad  for  him,  blind  as  he  is!  —  all  the  while 

If  they  speak  't  is  to  praise,  and  they  praise  with  a  smile. 

That  tall  Man,  a  giant  in  bulk  and  in  height, 
Not  an  inch  of  his  body  is  free  from  delight; 
Can  he  keep  himself  still,  if  he  would?  oh,  not  he ! 
The  music  stirs  in  liim  like  wind  through  a  tree. 

Mark  that  Cripple  who  leans  on  his  crutch ;  like  a  tower 
That  long  has  leaned  forward,  leans  hour  after  hour!  — 

f    18   1 


POWER   OF   MUSIC 

That  Mother,  whose  spirit  in  fetters  is  bound. 
While  she  dandles  the  Babe  in  her  arms  to  the  sound. 

Now,  coaches  and  chariots!  roar  on  Hke  a  stream; 
Here  are  twenty  souls  happy  as  souls  in  a  dream : 
They  are  deaf  to  your  murmurs  —  they  care  not  for  you. 
Nor  what  ye  are  flying,  nor  what  ye  pursue ! 


[  19  j 


STAR-GAZERS 

1806     1807 
Observed  by  me  in  Leicester-square,  as  here  described. 

What  crowd  is  this?  what  have  we  here!  we  must  not 

pass  it  by; 
A  Telescope  upon  its  frame,  and  pointed  to  the  sky: 
Long  is  it  as  a  barber's  pole,  or  mast  of  little  boat. 
Some  little  pleasure-skiff,  that  doth  on  Thames's  water 

float. 

The  Showman  chooses  well  his  place,  't  is  Leicester's 

busy  Square; 
And  is  as  happy  in  his  night,  for  the  heavens  are  blue 

and  fair; 
Calm,  though   impatient,   is  the  crowd;  each  stands 

ready  with  the  fee. 
And  envies  him  that's  looking;  —  what  an  insight  must 

it  be! 

Yet,  Showman,  where  can  lie  the  cause?  Shall  thy  Im- 
plement have  blame, 

A  boaster,  that  when  he  is  tried,  fails,  and  is  put  to 
shame? 

[20] 


STAR-GAZERS 

Or  is  it  good  as  others  are,  and  be  their  eyes  in  fauK? 
Their  eyes,  or  minds?  or,  finally,  is  yon  resplendent 
vault? 

Is  nothing  of  that  radiant  pomp  so  good  as  we  have 

here? 
Or  gives  a  thing  but  small  delight  that  never  can  be 

dear? 
The  silver  moon  with  all  her  vales,  and  hills  of  mightiest 

fame. 
Doth  she  betray  us  when  they're  seen?  or  are  they  but 

a  name? 

Or  is  it  rather  that  Conceit  rapacious  is  and  strong, 
And  bounty  never  yields  so  much  but  it  seems  to  do  her 

wrong? 
Or  is  it,  that  when  human  Souls  a  journey  long  have  had 
And  are  returned  into  themselves,  they  cannot  but  be 

sad? 

Or  must  we  be  constrained  to  think  that  these  Spec- 
tators rude, 

Poor  in  estate,  of  manners  base,  men  of  the  multitude, 

Have  souls  which  never  yet  have  risen,  and  therefore 
prostrate  lie? 

No,  no,  this  cannot  be;  —  men  thirst  for  power  and 
majesty ! 

[  21  1 


STAR-GAZERS 

Does,  then,  a  deep  and  earnest  thought  the  bHssful  mind 

employ 
Of  him  who  gazes,  or  has  gazed?  a  grave  and  steady  joy. 
That  doth  reject  all  show  of  pride,  admits  no  outward 

sign, 
Because  not  of  this  noisy  world,  but  silent  and  divine! 

Whatever  be  the  cause,  't  is  sure  that  they  who  pry  and 

pore 
Seem  to  meet  with  little  gain,  seem  less  happy  than 

before: 
One  after  One  they  take  their  turn,  nor  have  I  one 

espied 
That  doth  not  slackly  go  away,  as  if  dissatisfied. 


22 


"YES,  IT  WAS  THE  MOUNTAIN  ECHO" 

1806     1807 

Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  The  echo  came  from 
Nab-scar,  when  I  was  walking  on  the  opposite  side  of  Rydal 
Mere.  I  will  here  mention,  for  my  dear  Sister's  sake,  that, 
while  she  was  sitting  alone  one  day  high  up  on  this  part  of 
Loughrigg  Fell,  she  was  so  affected  by  the  voice  of  the  Cuckoo 
heard  from  the  crags  at  some  distance  that  she  could  not  sup- 
press a  wish  to  have  a  stone  inscribed  with  her  name  among 
the  rocks  from  wliich  the  sound  proceeded.  On  my  return  from 
my  walk  I  recited  these  verses  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth. 

Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo, 
Sohtary,  clear,  profound. 
Answering  to  the  shouting  Cuckoo, 
Giving  to  her  sound  for  sound ! 

UnsoUcited  reply 

To  a  babbhng  wanderer  sent; 

Like  her  ordinary  cry, 

Like  —  but  oh,  how  different! 

Hears  not  also  mortal  Life? 
Hear  not  we,  unthinking  Creatures! 
Slaves  of  folly,  love,  or  strife  — • 
Voices  of  two  different  natures? 
f  23  1 


YES,   IT   WAS   THE   MOUNTAIN   ECHO 

Have  not  we  too?  —  yes,  we  have 
Answers,  and  we  know  not  whence; 
Echoes  from  beyond  the  grave, 
Recognised  inteUigence ! 

Such  rebounds  our  inward  ear 
Catches  sometimes  from  afar  — 
Listen,  ponder,  hold  them  dear; 
For  of  God,  —  of  God  they  are. 


[24  ] 


"NUNS  FRET  NOT  AT  THEIR  CONVENT'S 
NARROW  ROOM" 

1806     1807 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room; 

And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells; 

And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels; 

Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 

Sit  blithe  and  happy;  bees  that  soar  for  bloom. 

High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furness-fells, 

Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells: 

In  truth  the  prison,  into  which  we  doom 

Ourselves,  no  prison  is:  and  hence  for  me, 

In  sundry  moods,  't  was  pastime  to  be  bound 

Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground; 

Pleased  if  some  Souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 

Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty. 

Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found. 


[  25 


PERSONAL  TALK 

1806     1807 

Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.     The  last  line  but  two 
stood,  at  first,  better  and  more  characteristically,  thus :  — 

"  By  my  half-kitchen  and  half-parlour  fire." 
My  Sister  and  I  were  in  the  habit  of  having  the  tea-kettle  in 
our  little  sitting-room;  and  we  toaste<l  the  bread  ourselves, 
which  reminds  me  of  a  little  circumstance  not  unworthy  of 
being  set  down  among  these  minutiae.  Happening  both  of  us 
to  be  engaged  a  few  minutes  one  morning  when  we  had  a  young 
prig  of  a  Scotch  lawyer  to  breakfast  with  us,  my  dear  Sister, 
with  her  usual  simplicity,  put  the  toasting-fork  with  a  slice  of 
bread  into  the  hands  of  this  Edinburgh  genius.  Our  little 
book-case  st(X)d  on  one  side  of  the  fire.  To  prevent  loss  of 
time,  he  took  down  a  book,  and  fell  to  reading,  to  the  neglect 
of  the  toast,  which  was  burnt  to  a  cinder.  Many  a  time  have 
we  laughed  at  this  circumstance,  and  other  cottage  simplici- 
ties of  that  day.  By  the  bye,  I  have  a  spite  at  one  of  this  series 
of  Sonnets  (I  will  leave  the  reader  to  discover  which)  as  having 
been  the  means  of  nearly  putting  off  for  ever  our  acquaintance 
with  dear  Miss  Fenwick,  who  has  always  stigmatised  one  line 
of  it  as  vulgar,  and  worthy  only  of  having  been  composed  by 
a  country  squire. 

I 

I  AM  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk.  — 
Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk. 
Or  neighbours,  daily,  weekly,  in  luy  sight: 
f  26  1 


PERSONAL   TALK 

And,  for  my  chance-acquaintance,  ladies  bright, 
Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the  stalk. 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  Forms,  with  chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men's  floors,  for  one  feast-night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire; 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim. 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame. 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 

II 

"Yet  life,"  you  say,  "is  life;  we  have  seen  and  see, 
And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe; 
And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 
The  languid  mind  into  activity. 
Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and  glee 
Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe." 
Even  be  it  so;  yet  still  among  your  tribe. 
Our  daily  world's  true  Worldlings,  rank  not  me! 
Children  are  blest,  and  powerful;  their  world  lies 
More  justly  balanced;  partly  at  their  feet. 
And  part  far  from  them:  sweetest  melodies 
Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet; 
Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes. 
He  is  a  Slave;  the  meanest  we  can  meet! 
f  27  1 


PERSONAL  TALK 

III 

Wings  have  we,  —  and  as  far  as  we  can  go, 
We  may  find  pleasure :  wilderness  and  wood, 
Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 
Dreams,  books,  are  each  a  world;  and  books,  we 

know. 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good: 
Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous  store. 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am. 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear; 
Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear,  — 
The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor; 
And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  Lamb. 

IV 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 
Great  gains  are  mine;  for  thus  I  live  remote 
From  evil-speaking;  rancour,  never  sought. 
Comes  to  me  not;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 
Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 
Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and  joyous 
thought : 

[  28  1 


PERSONAL   TALK 

And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 
Rocks  in  its  harbour,  lodging  peaceably. 
Blessings  be  with  them  —  and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares  — 
The  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays! 
Oh!  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs, 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 


[  29 


ADMONITION 


1806     1807 


Intended  more  particularly  for  the  perusal  of  those  who  may 
have  happened  to  be  enamoured  of  some  beautiful  Place  of 
Retreat,  in  the  Country  of  the  Lakes. 

Well  may'st  thou  halt  —  and  gaze  with  brighten- 


ing eye 


The  lovely  Cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 

Hath  stirred  thee  deeply;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 

Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky! 

But  covet  not  the  Abode;  —  forbear  to  sigh, 

As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look; 

Intruders  —  who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 

This  precious  leaf,  with  harsh  impiety. 

Think  what  the  home  must  be  if  it  were  thine, 

Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants!  —  Roof,  window, 

door. 
The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 
The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine: 
Yea,  all,  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 
On  which  it  should  be  touched,  would  melt  away. 


30 


"BELOVED    VALE!"    I    SAID,    "WHEN    I 
SHALL  CON" 

1806     1807 

"Beloved  Vale!"  I  said,  "when  I  shall  con 
Those  many  records  of  my  childish  years, 
Remembrance  of  myself  and  of  my  peers 
Will  press  me  down:  to  think  of  what  is  gone 
Will  be  an  awful  thought,  if  Hfe  have  one." 
But,  when  into  the  Vale  I  came,  no  fears 
Distressed  me;  from  mine  eyes  escaped  no  tears; 
Deep  thought,  or  dread  remembrance,  had  I  none. 
By  doubts  and  thousand  petty  fancies  crost 
I  stood,  of  simple  shame  the  blushing  Thrall; 
So  narrow  seemed  the  brooks,  the  fields  so  small! 
A  Juggler's  balls  old  Time  about  him  tossed; 
I  looked,  I  stared,  I  smiled,  I  laughed;  and  all 
The  weight  of  sadness  was  in  wonder  lost. 


31 


"HOW    SWEET    IT    IS,    WHEN    MOTHER 
FANCY  ROCKS" 

1806     1807 

How  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  Fancy  rocks 

The  wayward  brain,  to  saunter  through  a  wood! 

An  old  place,  full  of  many  a  lovely  brood. 

Tall  trees,  green  arbours,  and  ground-flowers  in  flocks; 

And  wild  rose  tip-toe  upon  hawthorn  stocks, 

Like  a  bold  Girl,  who  plays  her  agile  pranks 

At  Wakes  and  Fairs  with  wandering  Mountebanks,  — - 

When  she  stands  cresting  the  Clown's  head,  and  mocks 

The  crowd  beneath  her.   Verily  I  think, 

Such  place  to  me  is  sometimes  like  a  dream 

Or  map  of  the  whole  world:  thoughts,  link  by  link, 

Enter  through  ears  and  eyesight,  with  such  gleam 

Of  all  things,  that  at  last  in  fear  I  shrink. 

And  leap  at  once  from  the  delicious  stream. 


[  32  ] 


THOSE  WORDS  WERE  UTTERED  AS  IN 
PENSIVE  MOOD" 

1806     1807 

" they  are  of  the  sky. 

And  from  our  earthly  memory  fade  away." 

Those  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood 
We  turned,  departing  from  that  solemn  sight; 
A  contrast  and  reproach  to  gross  dehght. 
And  life's  unspiritual  pleasures  daily  wooed! 
But  now  upon  this  thought  I  cannot  brood; 
It  is  unstable  as  a  dream  of  night; 
Nor  will  I  praise  a  cloud,  however  bright. 
Disparaging  Man's  gifts,  and  proper  food. 
Grove,  isle,  with  every  shape  of  sky-built  dome, 
Though  clad  in  colours  beautiful  and  pure, 
Find  in  the  heart  of  man  no  natural  home: 
The  immortal  Mind  craves  objects  that  endure: 
These  cleave  to  it ;  from  these  it  cannot  roam. 
Nor  they  from  it :  their  fellowship  is  secure. 


[  33  ] 


COMPOSED  BY  THE  SIDE  OF  GRASMERE 
LAKE 

1806     1820 

Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars 
Through  the  grey  west;  and  lo!  these  waters,  steeled 
By  breezeless  air  to  smoothest  polish,  yield 
A  vivid  repetition  of  the  stars; 
Jove,  Venus,  and  the  ruddy  crest  of  Mars 
Amid  his  fellows  beauteously  revealed 
At  happy  distance  from  earth's  groaning  field. 
Where  ruthless  mortals  wage  incessant  wars. 
Is  it  a  mirror?  —  or  the  nether  Sphere 
Opening  to  view  the  abyss  in  which  she  feeds 
Her  own  calm  fires?  —  But  list !  a  voice  is  near; 
Great  Pan  himself  low-whispering  through  the  reeds, 
"Be  thankful,  thou;  for,  if  unholy  deeds 
Ravage  the  world,  tranquillity  is  here!" 


34 


"WITH  HOW  SAD  STEPS,  O  MOON,  THOU 
CLIMB'ST  THE  SKY" 

1806     1807 

"  WitA  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky. 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! " 
Where  art  thou?   Thou  so  often  seen  on  high 
Running  among  the  clouds  a  Wood-nymph's  race! 
Unhappy  Nuns,  whose  common  breath 's  a  sigh 
Which  they  would  stifle,  move  at  such  a  pace! 
The  northern  Wind,  to  call  thee  to  the  chase. 
Must  blow  to-night  his  bugle  horn.    Had  I 
The  power  of  Merlin,  Goddess!  this  should  be: 
And  all  the  stars,  fast  as  the  clouds  were  riven, 
Should  sally  forth,  to  keep  thee  company. 
Hurrying  and  sparkling  through  the  clear  blue  heaven. 
But,  Cynthia!  should  to  thee  the  palm  be  given. 
Queen  both  for  beauty  and  for  majesty. 


35  ] 


"THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US; 
LATE  AND  SOON" 

1806     1807 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon. 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
The  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


36 


"WITH  SHIPS  THE  SEA  WAS  SPRINKLED 
FAR  AND  NIGH" 

1806     1807 

With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh, 

Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed; 

Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road. 

Some  veering  up  and  down,  one  knew  not  why. 

A  goodly  Vessel  did  I  then  espy 

Come  like  a  giant  from  a  haven  broad; 

And  lustily  along  the  bay  she  strode, 

Her  tackling  rich,  and  of  apparel  high. 

This  Ship  was  nought  to  me,  nor  I  to  her. 

Yet  I  pursued  her  with  a  Lover's  look; 

This  Ship  to  all  the  rest  did  I  prefer: 

When  will  she  turn,  and  whither?   She  will  brook 

No  tarrying;  where  She  comes  the  winds  must  stir: 

On  went  She,  and  due  north  her  journey  took. 


[37] 

50036 


"WHERE  LIES  THE  LAND  TO  WHICH  YON 
SHIP  MUST  GO?" 

1806     1807 

Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go? 

Fresh  as  a  lark  mounting  at  break  of  day, 

Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array; 

Is  she  for  tropic  suns,  or  polar  snow? 

What  boots  the  inquiry?  —  Neither  friend  nor  foe 

She  cares  for;  let  her  travel  where  she  may, 

She  finds  familiar  names,  a  beaten  way 

Ever  before  her,  and  a  wind  to  blow. 

Yet  still  I  ask,  what  haven  is  her  mark? 

And,  almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare, 

(From  time  to  time,  like  Pilgrims,  here  and  there 

Crossing  the  waters)  doubt,  and  something  dark» 

Of  the  old  Sea  some  reverential  fear. 

Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  Bark! 


38 


TO  SLEEP 

1806     1807 

0  GENTLE  Sleep  !  do  they  belong  to  thee, 
These  twinklings  of  oblivion?   Thou  dost  love 
To  sit  in  meekness,  like  the  brooding  Dove, 
A  captive  never  wishing  to  be  free. 

This  tiresome  night,  O  Sleep !  thou  art  to  me 
A  Fly,  that  up  and  down  himself  doth  shove 
Upon  a  fretful  rivulet,  now  above 
Now  on  the  water  vexed  with  mockery. 

1  have  no  pain  that  calls  for  patience,  no; 
Hence  am  I  cross  and  peevish  as  a  child: 
Am  pleased  by  fits  to  have  thee  for  my  foe. 
Yet  ever  willing  to  be  reconciled : 

O  gentle  Creature!  do  not  use  me  so. 
But  once  and  deeply  let  me  be  beguiled. 


[  39  ] 


TO  SLEEP 

1806     1807 

A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky; 
I  have  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless!  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep!  by  any  stealth: 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away : 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day. 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health ! 


40 


TO  SLEEP 

1806     1807 

Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee,  Sleep! 
And  thou  hast  had  thy  store  of  tenderest  names; 
The  very  sweetest,  Fancy  culls  or  frames, 
When  thankfulness  of  heart  is  strong  and  deep! 
Dear  Bosom-child  we  call  thee,  that  dost  steep 
In  rich  reward  all  suffering;  Balm  that  tames 
All  anguish;  Saint  that  evil  thoughts  and  aims 
Takest  away,  and  into  souls  dost  creep. 
Like  to  a  breeze  from  heaven.    Shall  I  alone, 
I  surely  not  a  man  ungently  made. 
Call  thee  worst  Tyrant  by  which  Flesh  is  crost? 
Perverse,  self-willed  to  own  and  to  disown, 
Mere  slave  of  them  who  never  for  thee  prayed. 
Still  last  to  come  where  thou  art  wanted  most! 


[  41 


TWO  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MICHAEL 
ANGELO,  AND  A  TRANSLATION  FROM 
THE  LATIN  OF  THOMAS  WARTON 

(?)     1882 

Night  speaks 

Grateful  is  Sleep,  my  life  in  stone  bound  fast; 
More  grateful  still:  while  wrong  and  shame  shall 

last, 
On  me  can  Time  no  happier  state  bestow 
Than  to  be  left  unconscious  of  the  woe. 
Ah  then,  lest  you  awaken  me,  speak  low. 

Grateful  is  Sleep,  more  grateful  still  to  be 
Of  marble;  for  while  shameless  wrong  and  woe 
Prevail,  't  is  best  to  neither  hear  nor  see. 
Then  wake  me  not,  I  pray  you.    Hush,  speak  low. 

Come,  gentle  Sleep,  Death's  image  tho'  thou  art, 
Come  share  my  couch,  nor  speedily  depart; 
How  sweet  thus  living  without  life  to  lie. 
Thus  without  death  how  sweet  it  is  to  die. 


42 


FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO 

1806     1807 

Translations  from  Michael  Angelo,  done  at  the  request  of 
Mr.  Duppa,  whose  acquaintance  I  made  through  Mr.  Southey. 
Mr.  Duppa  was  engaged  in  writing  the  life  of  Michael  Angelo, 
and  applied  to  Mr.  Southey  and  myself  to  furnish  some  speci- 
mens of  his  poetic  genius. 

Yes!  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep  pace, 

And  I  be  undeluded,  unbetrayed; 

For  if  of  our  affections  none  finds  grace 

In  sight  of  Heaven,  then,  wherefore  hath  God  made 

The  world  which  we  inhabit?    Better  plea 

Love  cannot  have,  than  that  in  loving  thee 

Glory  to  that  eternal  Peace  is  paid. 

Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts 

As  hallows  and  makes  pure  all  gentle  hearts. 

His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whose  love  dies 

With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  hour; 

But,  in  chaste  hearts  uninfluenced  by  the  po\  er 

Of  outward  change,  there  blooms  a  deathless  i  ower. 

That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  paradise. 


[  43 


FROM  THE  SAME 

180G     1807 

No  mortal  object  did  these  eyes  behold 
When  first  they  met  the  placid  light  of  thine. 
And  my  Soul  felt  her  destiny  divine, 
And  hope  of  endless  peace  in  me  grew  bold: 
Heaven-born,  the  Soul    a    heaven-ward  course 

must  hold; 
Beyond  the  visible  world  she  soars  to  seek 
(For  what  delights  the  sense  is  false  and  weak) 
Ideal  Form,  the  universal  mould. 
The  wise  man,  I  affirm,  can  find  no  rest 
In  that  which  perishes:  nor  will  he  lend 
His  heart  to  aught  which  doth  on  time  depend. 
'T  is  sense,  unbridled  will,  and  not  true  love. 
That  kills  the  soul :  love  betters  what  is  best, 
Even  here  below,  but  more  in  heaven  above. 


44 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  RAISLEY  CALVERT 

1806     1807 

This  young  man,  Raisley  Calvert,  to  whom  I  was  so  much 
indebted,  died  at  Penrith,  1795. 

Calvert  !  it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them 
Who  may  respect  my  name,  that  I  to  thee 
Owed  many  years  of  early  liberty. 
This  care  was  thine  when  sickness  did  condemn 
Thy  youth  to  hopeless  wasting,  root  and  stem  — 
That  I,  if  frugal  and  severe,  might  stray 
"  Where'er  I  liked;  and  finally  array 
My  temples  with  the  Muse's  diadem. 
Hence,  if  in  freedom  I  have  loved  the  truth; 
If  there  be  aught  of  pure,  or  good,  or  great, 
In  my  past  verse;  or  shall  be,  in  the  lays 
Of  higher  mood,  which  now  I  meditate;  — 
It  gladdens  me,  O  worth\,  short-lived  Youth! 
To  think  how  much  of  thi;  will  be  thy  praise. 


45 


"IVIETHOUGHT    I    SAW    THE    FOOTSTEPS 
OF  A  THRONE" 

1806     1807 

The  latter  part  of  this  Sonnet  was  a  great  favourite  with  my 
sister  S.  H,  When  I  saw  her  lying  in  death,  I  could  not  resist 
the  impulse  to  compose  the  Sonnet  that  follows  it.  [The  son- 
net referred  to  is  that  entitled  "November  1836,"  beginning, 
"Even  so  for  me  a  Vision  sanctified."] 

Methought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne 
Which  mists  and  vapours  from  mine  eyes  did 

shroud  — ■ 
Nor  view  of  who  might  sit  thereon  allowed; 
But  all  the  steps  and  ground  about  were  strown 
With  sights  the  ruefullest  that  flesh  and  bone 
Ever  put  on;  a  miserable  crowd, 
Sick,  hale,  old,  young,  who  cried  before  that  cloud, 
"Thou  art  our  king,  O  Death!  to  thee  we  groan." 
Those  steps  I  clomb;  the  mists  before  me  gave 
Smooth  way;  and  I  '  eheld  the  face  of  one 
Sleeping  alone  with'  i  a  mossy  cave, 
With  her  face  up  t«  heaven;  that  seemed  to  have 
Pleasing  remcmbrj  \ce  of  a  thought  foregone; 
A  lovely  Beauty  ir  a  summer  grave! 


40 


LINES 

1806     1807 

Composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  walk  one  Evening,  after 
a  stormy  day,  the  Author  having  just  read  in  a  Newspaper 
that  the  dissolution  of  Mr.  Fox  was  hourly  expected. 

Loud  is  the  Vale !  the  Voice  is  up 

With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone, 

A  mighty  unison  of  streams ! 

Of  all  her  Voices,  One! 

Loud  is  the  Vale;  —  this  inland  Depth 
In  peace  is  roaring  like  the  Sea; 
5     Yon  star  upon  the  mountain-top 
Is  listening  quietly. 

Sad  was  I,  even  to  pain  deprest, 
Importunate  and  hea\^  load !  ^ 
The  Comforter  hath  found  me  here, 
Upon  this  lonely  road; 

And  many  thousands  now  are  sad  — 
Wait  the  fulfilment  of  their  fear; 
For  he  must  die  who  is  their  stay, 
Their  glory  disappear, 
f  47  1 


LINES 

A  Power  is  passing  from  the  earth 
To  breathless  Nature's  dark  abyss; 
But  when  the  great  and  good  depart 
What  is  it  more  than  this  — 

That  Man,  who  is  from  God  sent  forth, 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return?  — 
Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be. 
Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn? 


[48] 


NOVEMBER  1806 

1806     1807 

Another  year !  —  another  deadly  blow ! 
Another  mighty  Empire  overthrown! 
And  We  are  left,  or  shall  be  left,  alone; 
The  last  that  dare  to  struggle  with  the  Foe. 
'T  is  well !  from  this  day  forward  we  shall  know 
That  in  ourselves  our  safety  must  be  sought; 
That  by  our  own  right  hands  it  must  be  wrought; 
That  we  must  stand  unpropped,  or  be  laid  low. 
O  dastard  whom  such  foretaste  doth  not  cheer ! 
We  shall  exult,  if  they  who  rule  the  land 
Be  men  who  hold  its  many  blessings  dear. 
Wise,  upright,  valiant;  not  a  servile  band. 
Who  are  to  judge  of  danger  which  they  fear. 
And  honour  which  they  do  not  understand.' 


[49  1 


ADDRESS  TO  A  CHILD 

DURING  A   BOISTEROUS  WINTER  EVENING 
BY  MY  SISTER 
1806      1815 
Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere. 
What  way  does  the  wind  come?  What  way  does  he  go? 
He  rides  over  the  water,  and  over  the  snow, 
Through  wood,  and  through  vale;  and,  o'er  rocky  height 
Which  the  goat  cannot  cHrab,  takes  his  sounding  flight; 
He  tosses  about  in  every  bare  tree, 
As,  if  you  look  up,  you  plainly  may  see; 
But  how  he  will  come,  and  whither  he  goes, 
There's  never  a  scholar  in  England  knows. 

He  will  suddenly  stop  in  a  cunning  nook 
And  ring  a  sharp  'larum;  —  but,  if  you  should  look. 
There 's  nothing  to  see  but  a  cushion  of  snow 
Round  as  a  pillow,  and  whiter  than  milk. 
And  softer  than  if  it  were  covered  with  silk. 
Sometimes  he'll  hide  in  the  cave  of  a  rock, 
Then  whistle  as  shrill  as  the  buzzard  cock; 
—  Yet  seek  him,  —  and  what  shall  j'^ou  find  in  the  place? 
Nothing  but  silence  and  empty  space; 

f  50  1 


ADDRESS  TO  A  CHILD 

Save,  in  a  corner,  a  heap  of  dry  leaves, 

That  he's  left,  for  a  bed,  to  beggars  or  thieves! 

As  soon  as  't  is  daylight  to-morrow,  with  me 

You  shall  go  to  the  orchard,  and  then  you  will  see 

That  he  has  been  there,  and  made  a  great  rout. 

And  cracked  the  branches,  and  strewn  them  about; 

Heaven  grant  that  he  spare  but  that  one  upright  twig 

That  looked  up  at  the  sky  so  proud  and  big 

All  last  summer,  as  well  you  know. 

Studded  with  apples,  a  beautiful  show! 

Hark !  over  the  roof  he  makes  a  pause. 

And  growls  as  if  he  would  fix  his  claws 

Right  in  the  slates,  and  with  a  huge  rattle 

Drive  them  down,  like  men  in  a  battle: 

—  But  let  him  range  round;  he  does  us  no  harm, 
We  build  up  the  fire,  we're  snug  and  warm; 
Untouched  by  his  breath  see  the  candle  shines  bright. 
And  burns  with  a  clear  and  steady  light; 

Books  have  we  to  read,  —  but  that  half -stifled  knell, 
Alas !  't  is  the  sound  of  the  eight  o'clock  bell. 

—  Come,  now  we'll  to  bed!  and  when  we  are  there 
He  may  work  his  own  will,  and  what  shall  we  care? 
He  may  knock  at  the  door, —  we'll  not  let  him  in; 
May  drive  at  the  windows,  —  we'll  laugh  at  his  din; 
Let  him  seek  his  own  home  wherever  it  be; 
Here's  a  cczie  warm  house  for  Edward  and  me. 

f  51    1 


ODE 

INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM  RECOLLECTIONS 
OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD 

1803-6     1807 

This  was  composed  during  my  residence  at  Town-end, 
Grasmere.  Two  years  at  least  passed  between  the  writing  of 
the  four  first  stanzas  and  the  remaining  part.  To  the  attentive 
and  competent  reader  the  whole  sufficiently  explains  itself; 
but  there  may  be  no  harm  in  adverting  here  to  particular  feel- 
ings or  experiences  of  my  own  mind  on  which  the  structure  of 
the  poem  partly  rests.  Nothing  was  more  difficult  for  me  in 
childhood  than  to  admit  the  notion  of  death  as  a  state  ap- 
plicable to  my  own  being.    I  have  said  elsewhere  — 

"A  simple  child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death!"  — 

But  it  was  not  so  much  from  feelings  of  animal  vivacity  that 
my  difficulty  came  as  from  a  sense  of  the  iudoniitablcness 
of  the  Spirit  within  me.  I  used  to  brood  over  the  stories  of 
Enoch  and  Elijah,  and  almost  to  persuade  myself  that,  what- 
ever might  become  of  others,  I  should  be  translated,  in  some- 
thing of  tlie  same  way,  to  heaven.  With  a  feeling  congenial  to 
this,  I  was  often  unable  to  think  of  external  things  as  having 
external  existence,  and  I  communed  with  all  that  I  saw  as 
something  not  apart  from,  but  inherent  in,  my  own  immaterial 
nature.  Many  times  while  going  to  school  have  I  grasped  at  a 
wall  or  tree  to  recall  myself  from  this  abyss  of  idealism  to  the 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

reality.  At  that  time  I  was  afraid  of  such  processes.  In  later 
periods  of  life  I  have  deplored,  as  we  have  all  reason  to  do,  a 
subjugation  of  an  opposite  character,  and  have  rejoiced  over 
the  remembrances,  as  is  expressed  in  the  lines  — 

"Obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanisbings";  etc. 

To  that  dream-like  vividness  and  splendour  which  invest  ob- 
jects of  sight  in  childhood,  every  one,  I  believe,  if  he  would 
look  back,  could  bear  testimony,  and  I  need  not  dwell  upon  it 
here:  but  having  in  the  poem  regarded  it  as  presumptive  evid- 
ence of  a  prior  state  of  existence,  I  think  it  right  to  protest 
against  a  conclusion,  which  has  given  pain  to  some  good  and 
pious  persons,  that  I  meant  to  inculcate  such  a  belief.  It  is  far 
too  shadowy  a  notion  to  be  recommended  to  faith,  as  more  than 
an  element  in  our  instincts  of  immortality.  But  let  us  bear 
in  mind  that,  though  the  idea  is  not  advanced  in  revelation, 
there  is  nothing  there  to  contradict  it,  and  the  fall  of  Man  pre- 
sents an  analogy  in  its  favour.  Accordingly,  a  pre-existent 
state  has  entered  into  the  popular  creeds  of  many  nations; 
and,  among  all  persons  acquainted  with  classic  literature,  is 
known  as  an  ingredient  in  Platonic  philosophy.  Archimedes 
said  thathecould  move  the  world  if  he  had  a  point  whereon  to 
rest  his  machine.  Who  has  not  felt  the  same  aspirations  as  re- 
gards the  world  of  his  own  mind?  Having  to  wield  some  of  its 
elements  when  I  was  impelled  to  write  this  poem  on  the  "Im- 
mortality of  the  Soul,"  I  took  hold  of  the  notion  of  pre-existence 
as  having  sufficient  foundation  in  humanity  for  authorising  me 
to  make  for  my  purpose  the  best  use  of  it  I  could  as  a  poet. 

"The  Child  is  Father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 

f  o3   1 


INTIMATIONS  OF   IMMORTALITY 

I 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

II 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  lieavens  are  bare, 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Ill 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
f  54  1 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief. 

And  I  again  am  strong: 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng. 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday;  — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 

IV 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 

My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 

Wliile  Earth  herself  is  adorning. 
This  sweet  May-morning, 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

And  the  Children  are  culHng 
On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 

Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm,   j  \ 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm:  — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 

—  But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

V 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting. 
And  cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
f  56  1 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

But  He  beholds  the  Hght,  and  whence  it  flows. 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day.  5 

VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind. 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

VII 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
\  57  1 


INTIMATIONS  OF   IMMORTALITY 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  Ufe, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart. 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie    7  ' 

Thy  Soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind. 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep. 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 

Mighty  Prophet !    Seer  blest ! 
[  58  1 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiUng  all  our  lives  to  find. 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height. 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life!          ]\  \ 

IX 

^        O  joy !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  Nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest  — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 


59 


INTIMATIONS   OF  IMMORTALITY 

With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his 
breast :  — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Falhngs  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised: 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day,  y 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing;   1/ 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour. 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
'Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
f  00  1 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song!    j  -  — 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng. 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 
[  01  1 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

XI 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears. 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


G2  1 


A  PROPHECY 

FEBRUARY   1807 

1807     1807 

High  deeds,  O  Germans,  are  to  come  from  you  2 
Thus  in  your  books  the  record  shall  be  found, 
"A  watchword  was  pronounced,  a  potent  sound  — 
Arminius!  —  all  the  people  quaked  like  dew 
Stirred  by  the  breeze;  they  rose,  a  Nation,  true. 
True  to  herself  —  the  mighty  Germany, 
She  of  the  Danube  and  the  Northern  Sea, 
She  rose,  and  off  at  once  the  yoke  she  threw. 
All  power  was  given  her  in  the  dreadful  trance; 
Those  new-born  Kings  he  withered  like  a  flame." 
—  Woe  to  them  all !  but  heaviest  woe  and  shame 
To  that  Bavarian  who  could  first  advance 
His  banner  in  accursed  league  with  France, 
First  open  traitor  to  the  German  name ! 


63  ] 


THOUGHT  OF  A  BRITON  ON  THE  SUB- 
JUGATION OF  SWITZERLAND 

1807     1807 

This  was  composefl  while  pacing  to  and  fro  between  the 
Hull  of  Coleorton,  then  rebuilding,  and  the  principal  Farm- 
house of  the  Estate,  in  which  we  lived  for  nine  or  ten  months. 
I  will  here  mention  that  the  Song  on  the  Restoration  of  Lord 
Clifford,  as  well  as  that  on  the  feast  of  Brougham  Castle, 
were  produced  on  the  same  ground. 

Two  Voices  are  there;  one  is  of  the  sea, 

One  of  the  mountains;  each  a  mighty  Voice: 

In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice. 

They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty! 

There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 

Thou  fought'st  against  him;  but  hast  vainly  striven: 

Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 

Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft : 

Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left; 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore. 

And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee ! 


64 


TO  THOMAS  CLARKSON 

ON  THE  FINAL  PASSING  OF  THE  BILL  FOR  THE  ABOLITION 
OF  THE  SLAVE  TRADE 

1807     1807 

Clarkson!  it  was  an  obstinate  hill  to  climb: 
How  toilsome  —  nay,  how  dire  —  it  was,  by  thee 
Is  known;  by  none,  perhaps,  so  feelingly: 
But  thou,  who,  starting  in  thy  fervent  prime, 
Didst  first  lead  forth  that  enterprise  sublime, 
Hast  heard  the  constant  Voice  its  charge  repeat, 
Which,  out  of  thy  young  heart's  oracular  seat, 
First  roused  thee.  —  O  true  yoke-fellow  of  Time, 
Duty's  intrepid  liegeman,  see,  the  palm 
Is  won,  and  by  all  Nations  shall  be  worn! 
The  blood-stained  Writing  is  for  ever  torn; 
And  thou  henceforth  wilt  have  a  good  man's  calm, 
A  great  man's  happiness;  thy  zeal  shall  find 
Repose  at  length,  firm  friend  of  human  kind! 


[  Qo 


THE  MOTHER'S  RETURN 

BY  MY  SISTER 

1807      1815 

Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.* 

A  MONTH,  sweet  Little-ones,  is  past 
Since  your  dear  Mother  went  away,  — 
And  she  to-morrow  will  return; 
To-morrow  is  the  happy  day. 

0  blessed  tidings!  thought  of  joy! 
The  eldest  heard  with  steady  glee; 
Silent  he  stood;  then  laughed  amain, — 
And  shouted,  "Mother,  come  to  me." 

Louder  and  louder  did  he  shout. 
With  witless  hope  to  bring  her  near; 
"Nay,  patience!  patience,  little  boy! 
Your  tender  mother  cannot  hear." 

1  told  of  hills,  and  far-off  towns. 

And  long,  long  vales  to  travel  through ;  - 
He  listens,  puzzled,  sore  perplexed, 
But  he  submits;  what  can  he  do? 

[  G()  1 


THE   MOTHER'S   RETURN 

No  strife  disturbs  his  sister's  breast; 
She  wars  not  with  the  mystery 
Of  time  and  distance,  night  and  day; 
The  bonds  of  our  humanity. 

Her  joy  is  hke  an  instinct,  joy 
Of  kitten,  bird,  or  summer  fly; 
She  dances,  runs  without  an  aim, 
She  chatters  in  her  ecstasy. 

Her  brother  now  takes  up  the  note, 
And  echoes  back  his  sister's  glee; 
They  hug  the  infant  in  my  arms, 
As  if  to  force  his  sympathy. 

Then,  settHng  into  fond  discourse, 
We  rested  in  the  garden  bower; 
While  sweetly  shone  the  evening  sun 
In  his  departing  hour. 

We  told  o'er  all  that  we  had  done,  — 
Our  rambles  by  the  swift  brook's  side 
Far  as  the  willow-skirted  pool, 
Where  two  fair  swans  together  glide. 

We  talked  of  change,  of  -wnnter  gone, 
Of  green  leaves  on  the  hawthorn  sprays 
f  67  1 


THE    MOTHER'S   RETURN 

Of  birds  that  build  their  nests  and  sing. 
And  all  "since  Mother  went  away!" 

To  her  these  tales  they  will  repeat, 
To  her  our  new-born  tribes  will  show. 
The  goslings  green,  the  ass's  colt. 
The  Iambs  that  in  the  meadow  go. 

—  But,  see,  the  evening  star  comes  forth? 
To  bed  the  children  must  depart; 
A  moment's  heaviness  they  feel, 
^  sadness  at  the  heart; 

'T  is  gone  —  and  in  a  merry  fit 
They  run  upstairs  in  gamesome  race; 
I,  too,  infected  by  their  mood 
I  could  have  joined  the  wanton  chase. 

Five  minutes  past  —  and,  O  the  change; 
Asleep  upon  their  beds  they  lie; 
Their  busy  limbs  in  perfect  rest. 
And  closed  the  sparkling  eye. 


68 


GIPSIES 

1807     1807 

Composed  at  Coleorton.  I  had  observed  them,  as  here 
described,  near  Castle  Donnington,  on  my  way  to  and  from 
Derby. 

Yet  are  they  here  the  same  unbroken  knot 
Of  human  Beings,  in  the  selfsame  spot ! 
Men,  women,  children,  yea  the  frame 
Of  the  whole  spectacle  the  same! 
Only  their  fire  seems  bolder,  yielding  light. 
Now  deep  and  red,  the  colouring  of  night; 
That  on  their  Gipsy-faces  falls, 
Their  bed  of  straw  and  blanket-walls. 
—  Twelve  hours,  twelve  bounteous  hours  are 

gone,  while  I 
Have  been  a  traveller  under  open  sky, 

Much  witnessing  of  change  and  cheer, 
Yet  as  I  left  I  find  them  here ! 
The  weary  Sun  betook  himself  to  rest;  — 
Then  issued  Vesper  from  the  fulgent  west, 
Outshining  like  a  visible  God 
The  glorious  path  in  which  he  trod. 
And  now,  ascending,  after  one  dark  hour 
And  one  night's  diminution  of  her  power, 
f  69  1 


GIPSIES 

Behold  the  mighty  Moon !  this  way 
She  looks  as  if  at  them  —  but  they 

Regard  not  her :  —  oh  better  wrong  and  strife 

(By  nature  transient)  than  this  torpid  life; 
Life  which  the  very  stars  reprove 
As  on  their  silent  tasks  they  move! 

Yet,  witness  all  that  stirs  in  heaven  or  earth ! 

In  scorn  I  speak  not;  —  they  are  what  their  birth 
And  breeding  suffer  them  to  be; 
Wild  outcasts  of  society! 


[70] 


"O  NIGHTINGALE!  THOU  SURELY  ART" 

1807     1807 

Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  {Mrs.  W.  says  in  a  note  — 
"At  Coleorton.") 

0  Nightingale!  thou  surely  art 
A  creature  of  a  "fiery  heart":  — 

These  notes  of  thine  —  they  pierce  and  pierce; 

Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce! 

Thou  sing'st  as  if  the  God  of  wine 

Had  helped  thee  to  a  Valentine; 

A  song  in  mockery  and  despite 

Of  shades,  and  dews,  and  silent  night; 

And  steady  bliss,  and  all  the  loves 

Now  sleeping  in  these  peaceful  groves. 

1  heard  a  Stock-dove  sing  or  say 
His  homely  tale,  this  very  day; 
His  voice  was  buried  among  trees. 
Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze: 

He  did  not  cease;  but  cooed  —  and  cooed; 
And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed: 
He  sang  of  love,  with  quiet  blending, 
Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending; 
Of  serious  faith,  and  inward  glee; 
That  was  the  song  —  the  song  for  me! 
f  71  1 


TO  LADY  BEAUMONT 

1807     1807 

The  winter  garden  of  Coleorton,  fashioned  out  of  an  old 
quarry  under  the  superintendence  and  direction  of  Mrs. 
Wordsworth  and  my  Sister  Dorothy,  during  the  winter  and 
spring  we  resided  there. 

Lady!  the  songs  of  Spring  were  in  the  grove 
While  I  was  shaping  beds  for  winter  flowers; 
While  I  was  planting  green  unfading  bowers, 
And  shrubs  —  to  hang  upon  the  warm  alcove. 
And  sheltering  wall;  and  still,  as  Fancy  wove 
The  dream,  to  Time  and  Nature's  blended  powers 
I  gave  this  paradise  for  winter  hours, 
A  labyrinth,  Lady!  which  your  feet  shall  rove. 
Yes!  when  the  sun  of  life  more  feebly  shines, 
Becoming  thoughts,  I  trust,  of  solemn  gloom 
Or  of  high  gladness  you  shall  hither  bring; 
And  these  perennial  bowers  and  murmuring  pines 
Be  gracious  as  the  music  and  the  bloom 
And  all  the  mighty  ravishment  of  Spring. 


I  72  ] 


"THOUGH  NARROW  BE  THAT  OLD 
IVIAN'S  CARES" 

1807     1807 

" gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Written  at  Coleorton.  This  old  man's  name  was  Mitchell. 
He  was,  in  all  his  ways  and  conversation,  a  great  curiosity, 
both  individually  and  as  a  representative  of  past  times.  His 
chief  employment  was  keeping  watch  at  night  by  pacing 
round  the  house,  at  that  time  building,  to  keep  off  depre- 
dators. He  has  often  told  me  gravelj"  of  having  seen  the 
Seven  Whistlers  and  the  Hounds  as  here  described.  Among 
the  groves  of  Coleorton,  where  I  became  familiar  with  the 
habits  and  notions  of  old  Mitchell,  there  was  also  a  labourer  of 
whom,  I  regret,  I  had  no  personal  knowledge;  for.  more  than 
forty  years  after,  when  he  was  become  an  old  man,  I  learnt 
that  while  I  was  composing  verses,  which  I  usually  did  aloud, 
he  took  much  pleasure,  unknown  to  me,  in  following  my  steps 
that  he  might  catch  the  words  I  uttered;  and,  what  is  not  a 
little  remarkable,  several  lines  caught  in  this  way  kept  their 
place  in  his  memory.  My  volumes  have  lately  been  given  to 
him  by  my  informant,  and  surely  he  must  have  been  gratified 
to  meet  in  print  his  old  acquaintances. 

TiiouGH  narrow  be  that  old  Man's  cares,  and  near. 
The  poor  old  Man  is  greater  than  he  seems: 
For  he  hath  waking  empire,  wide  as  dreams; 
An  ample  sovereignty  of  eye  and  ear. 
Rich  are  his  walks  with  supernatural  cheer; 
[  73  1 


LINES 

The  region  of  his  inner  spirit  teems 
With  vital  sounds  and  monitory  gleams 
Of  high  astonishment  and  pleasing  fear. 
He  the  seven  birds  hath  seen,  that  never  part, 
Seen  the  Seven  Whistlers  in  their  nightly  rounds, 
And  counted  them :  and  oftentimes  will  start  — 
For  overhead  are  sweeping  Gabriel's  Hounds 
Doomed,  with  their  impious  Lord,  the  flying  Hart 
To  chase  for  ever,  on  aerial  grounds! 


[  74  1 


SONG  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM 
CASTLE  5 

UPON  THE  RESTORATION  OF  LORD  CLIFFORD,  THE  SHEP- 
HERD, TO  THE  ESTATES  AND  HONOURS  OF  HIS  AN- 
CESTORS 

1807     1807 

This  poem  was  composed  at  Coleorton  while  I  was  walking 
to  and  fro  along  the  path  that  led  from  Sir  George  Beaumont's 
Farm-house,  where  we  resided,  to  the  Hall  which  was  building 
at  that  time. 

High  in  the  breathless  Hall  the  Minstrel  sate, 
And  Emont's  murmur  mingled  with  the  Song.  — 
The  words  of  ancient  time  I  thus  translate, 
A  festal  strain  that  hath  been  silent  long :  — 
"From  town  to  town,  from  tower  to  tower. 
The  red  rose  is  a  gladsome  flower. 
Her  thirty  years  of  winter  past. 
The  red  rose  is  revived  at  last; 
She  lifts  her  head  for  endless  spring, 
For  everlasting  blossoming: 
Both  roses  flourish,  red  and  white: 
In  love  and  sisterly  delight 
The  two  that  were  at  strife  are  blended. 
And  all  old  troubles  now  are  ended.  — 
I  75  ] 


SONG 

Joy!  joy  to  both!  but  most  to  her 
Who  is  the  flower  of  Lancaster! 
Behold  her  how  She  smiles  to-day 
On  this  great  throng,  this  bright  array! 
Fair  greeting  doth  she  send  to  all 
From  every  corner  of  the  hall; 
But  chiefly  from  above  the  board 
Where  sits  in  state  our  rightful  Lord, 
A  Clifford  to  his  own  restored ! 

They  came  with  banner,  spear,  and  shield, 
And  it  was  proved  in  Bosworth-fiold. 
Not  long  the  Avenger  was  withstood  — 
Earth  helped  him  with  the  cry  of  blood:" 

St.  George  was  for  us,  and  the  might 

Of  blessed  Angels  crowned  the  right. 

Loud  voice  the  Land  has  uttered  forth. 

We  loudest  in  the  faithful  north: 

Our  fields  rejoice,  our  mountains  ring, 

Our  streams  proclaim  a  welcoming; 

Our  strong-abodes  and  castles  see 

The  glory  of  their  loyalty. 

How  glad  is  Skipton  at  this  hour  — 

Though  lonely,  a  deserted  Tower; 

Knight,  squire,  and  yeoman,  page  and  groom; 

We  have  them  at  the  feast  of  Brough'm. 

How  glad  Pendragon  —  though  the  sleep 
f  70  1 


SONG 

Of  years  be  on  her !  —  She  shall  reap 
A  taste  of  this  great  pleasure,  viewing 
As  in  a  dream  her  own  renewing. 
Rejoiced  is  Brough,  right  glad  I  deem 
Beside  her  little  humble  stream; 
And  she  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward 
Her  statelier  Eden's  course  to  guard; 
They  both  are  happy  at  this  hour, 
Though  each  is  but  a  lonely  Tower :  — 
But  here  is  perfect  joy  and  pride 
For  one  fair  House  by  Eraont's  side. 
This  da3%  distinguished  without  peer 
To  see  her  Master  and  to  cheer  — 
Him,  and  his  Lady-mother  dear! 

Oh !  it  was  a  time  forlorn 
When  the  fatherless  was  born  — 
Give  her  wings  that  she  may  fly, 
Or  she  sees  her  infant  die! 
Swords  that  are  with  slaughter  wild 
Hunt  the  Mother  and  the  Child. 
Who  will  take  them  from  the  light? 
—  Yonder  is  a  man  in  sight  — 
Yonder  is  a  house  —  but  where? 
No,  they  must  not  enter  there. 
To  the  caves,  and  to  the  brooks. 
To  the  clouds  of  heaven  she  looks: 


SONG 

She  is  speechless,  but  her  eyes 
Pray  in  ghostly  agonies. 
Blissful  Mary,  Mother  mild, 
Maid  and  Mother  undefiled, 
Save  a  Mother  and  her  Child! 

Now  Who  is  he  that  bounds  with  joy 
On  Carroek's  side,  a  Shepherd-boy? 
No  thoughts  hath  he  but  thoughts  that  pass 
Light  as  the  wind  along  the  grass. 
Can  this  be  He  who  hither  came 
In  secret,  like  a  smothered  flame? 
O'er  whom  such  thankful  tears  were  shed 
For  shelter,  and  a  poor  man's  bread! 
God  loves  the  Child;  and  God  hath  willed 
That  those  dear  words  should  be  fulfilled. 
The  Lady's  words,  when  forced  away, 
The  last  she  to  her  Babe  did  say: 
"  My  own,  my  own,  thy  Fellow-guest 
I  may  not  be;  but  rest  thee,  rest, 
For  lowly  shepherd's  life  is  best!" 
Alas!  when  evil  men  are  strong 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long. 
The  Boy  must  part  from  ^losedale's  groves, 
And  leave  Blencathara's  rugged  coves. 
And  quit  the  flowers  that  Summer  brings 
To  Glenderamakin's  lofty  springs; 
I  78  1 


SONG 

Must  vanish,  and  his  careless  cheer 
Be  turned  to  heaviness  and  fear. 
—  Give  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld  praise! 
Hear  it,  good  man,  old  in  days ! 
Thou  tree  of  covert  and  of  rest 
For  this  young  Bird  that  is  distrest; 
Among  thy  branches  safe  he  lay. 
And  he  was  free  to  sport  and  play. 
When  falcons  were  abroad  for  prey. 
A  recreant  harp,  that  sings  of  fear 
And  heaviness  in  Clifford's  ear! 
I  said,  when  evil  men  are  strong. 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long, 
A  weak  and  cowardly  untruth ! 
Our  Clifford  was  a  happy  Youth, 
And  thankful  through  a  weary  time. 
That  brought  him  up  to  manhood's  prime. 
• —  Again  he  wanders  forth  at  will. 
And  tends  a  flock  from  hill  to  hill: 
His  garb  is  humble;  ne'er  was  seen 
Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien; 
Among  the  shepherd  grooms  no  mate 
Hath  he,  a  Child  of  strength  and  state! 
Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  simple  glee, 
Nor  yet  for  higher  sympathy. 
To  his  side  the  fallow-deer 
f  79  1 


SONG 

Came,  and  rested  without  fear; 
The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea, 
Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty; 
And  both  the  undying  fish  ^  that  swim 
Through  Bowscale-tarn  did  wait  on  him; 
The  pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 
In  their  immortality; 
And  glancing,  gleaming,  dark  or  bright, 
Moved  to  and  fro,  for  his  delight. 
He  knew  the  rocks  which  Angels  haunt 
Upon  the  mountains  visitant; 
He  hath  kenned  them  taking  wing: 
And  into  caves  where  Faeries  sing 
He  hath  entered;  and  been  told 
By  Voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 
Among  the  heavens  his  eye  can  see 
The  face  of  thing  that  is  to  be; 
And,  if  that  men  report  him  right. 
His  tongue  could  whisper  words  of  might. 
—  Now  another  day  is  come, 
Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom; 
He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook. 
And  hath  buried  deep  his  book; 
Armour  rusting  in  his  halls 
On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls  ;«  — 
"Quell  the  Scot,"  exclaims  the  Lancc  — 
[  80  1 


SONG 

Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France, 

Is  the  longing  of  the  Shield  — 

Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  Field; 

Field  of  death,  where'er  thou  be. 

Groan  thou  with  our  victory! 

Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour, 

When  our  Shepherd,  in  his  power. 

Mailed  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword, 

To  his  ancestors  restored 

Like  a  re-appearing  Star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar. 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war!"" 

Alas!  the  impassioned  minstrel  did  not  know 
How,  by  Heaven's  grace,  this  Clifford's  heart 

was  framed. 
How  he,  long  forced  in  humble  walks  to  go. 
Was  softened  into  feeling,  soothed,  and  tamed. 

Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie; 
His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills. 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 

In  him  the  savage  virtue  of  the  Race, 
Revenge,  and  all  ferocious  thoughts  were  dead: 

[  81  1 


SONG 

Nor  did  he  change;  but  kept  in  lofty  place 
The  wisdom  which  adversity  had  bred. 

Glad  were  the  vales,  and  every  cottage  hearth; 
The  Shepherd-lord  was  honoured  more  and  more 
And,  ages  after  he  was  laid  in  earth, 
"The  good  Lord  Clifford"  was  the  name  he  bore. 


82 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

OR,  THE  FATE  OF  THE  NORTONS" 
1807     1815 

The  earlier  half  of  this  Poem  was  composed  at  Stockton- 
upon-Tees,  when  Mrs.  Wordsworth  and  I  were  on  a  visit  to 
her  eldest  Brother,  Mr.  Hutchinson,  at  the  close  of  the  year 
1807.  The  country  is  flat,  and  the  weather  was  rough.  I  was 
accustomed  every  day  to  walk  to  and  fro  under  the  shelter 
of  a  row  of  stacks  in  a  field  at  a  small  distance  from  the  town, 
and  there  poured  forth  my  verses  aloud  as  freely  as  they 
would  come.  Mrs.  Wordsworth  reminds  me  that  her  Brother 
stood  upon  the  punctilio  of  not  sitting  down  to  dinner  till  I 
joined  the  party;  and  it  frequently  happened  that  I  did  not 
make  my  appearance  till  too  late,  so  that  she  was  made 
imcomfortable.  I  here  beg  her  pardon  for  this  and  similar 
transgressions  during  the  whole  course  of  our  wedded  life. 
To  my  beloved  Sister  the  same  apology  is  due. 

When,  from  the  visit  just  mentioned,  we  returned  to  Town- 
end,  Grasmere,  I  proceeded  with  the  Poem:  and  it  may  be 
worth  while  to  note,  as  a  caution  to  others  who  may  cast 
their  eye  on  these  memoranda,  that  the  skin  having  been 
rubbed  off  my  heel  by  my  wearing  too  tight  a  shoe,  though 
I  desisted  from  walking  I  found  that  the  irritation  of  the 
wounded  part  was  kept  up,  by  the  act  of  composition,  to  a 
degree  that  made  it  necessary  to  give  my  constitution  a 
holiday.  A  rapid  cure  was  the  consequence.  Poetic  excite- 
ment, when  accompanied  by  protracted  labour  in  compo- 
sition, has  throughout  my  life  brought  on  more  or  less 
bodily  derangement.  Nevertheless,  I  am,  at  the  close  of  my 
seventy-third  year,  in  what  may  be  called  excellent  health; 

I  83  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

so  that  intellectual  labour  is  not  necessarily  unfavourable  to 
longevity.  But  perhaps  I  ought  here  to  add  that  mine  has 
been  generally  carried  on  out  of  doors. 

Let  me  here  saj'  a  few  words  of  this  Poem  in  the  way  of 
criticism.  The  subject  being  taken  from  feudal  times  has  led 
to  its  being  compared  to  some  of  Walter  Scott's  poems  that 
belong  to  the  same  age  and  state  of  society.  The  comparison 
is  inconsiderate.  Sir  Walter  pursued  the  customary  and  very 
natural  course  of  conducting  an  action,  presenting  various 
turns  of  fortune,  to  some  outstanding  point  on  which  the 
mind  might  rest  as  a  termination  or  catastrophe.  The  course 
I  attempted  to  pursue  is  entirely  different.  Everything  that 
is  attempted  by  the  principal  personages  in  "The  White  Doe" 
fails,  so  far  as  its  object  is  external  and  substantial.  So  far 
as  it  is  moral  and  spiritual  it  succeeds.  The  Heroine  of  the 
Poem  knows  that  her  duty  is  not  to  interfere  with  the  current 
of  events,  either  to  forward  or  delay  them,  but 

"To  abide 
The  shock,  and  finally  secure 
O'er  pain  and  grief  a  triumph  pure." 

This  she  does  in  obedience  to  her  brother's  injunction,  as 
most  suitable  to  a  mind  and  character  that,  under  previous 
trials,  harl  been  proved  to  accord  with  his.  She  achieves  this 
not  without  aid  from  the  communication  with  the  inferior 
Creature,  which  often  leads  her  thoughts  to  revolve  upon 
the  past  with  a  tender  and  humanising  influence  that  exalts 
rather  than  depresses  her.  The  anticipated  beatification,  if 
I  may  so  say,  of  her  mind,  and  the  apotheosis  of  the  compan- 
ion of  her  solitude,  are  the  points  at  which  the  Poem  aims, 
and  constitute  its  legitimate  catastrophe,  far  too  spiritual 
a  one  for  instant  or  widely-spread  sympathy,  but  not  therefore 
the  less  fitted  to  make  a  deep  an<l  permanent  imf)ressi()n  upon 
that  class  of  minds  who  think  and  feel  more  in<l('i)endently, 
I   S-i    I 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

than  the  many  do,  of  the  surfaces  of  things  and  interests 
transitory  because  belonging  more  to  the  outward  and  social 
forms  of  life  than  to  its  internal  spirit.  How  insignificant  a 
thing,  for  example,  does  personal  prowess  appear,  compared 
with  the  fortitude  of  patience  and  heroic  martyrdom:  in  other 
words,  with  struggles  for  the  sake  of  principle,  in  preference 
to  victory  glorified  in  for  its  own  sake. 

ADVERTISEMENT 

During  the  Summer  of  1807  I  visited,  for  the  first  time,  the 
beautiful  country  that  surrounds  Bolton  Priory,  in  Yorkshire; 
and  the  Poem  of  "The  White  Doe,"  founded  upon  a  Tradition 
connected  with  that  place,  was  composed  at  the  close  of  the 
same  year. 

DEDICATION 

In  trellised  shed  with  clustering  roses  gay. 

And,  Mary!  oft  beside  our  blazing  fire. 

When  years  of  wedded  life  were  as  a  day 

WTiose  current  answers  to  the  hearts  desire. 

Did  we  together  read  in  Spenser's  Lay 

How  Una,  sad  of  soul  —  in  sad  attire. 

The  gentle  Una,  of  celestial  birth, 

To  seek  her  Knight  went  wandering  o'er  the  earth. 

Ah,  then.  Beloved!  pleasing  was  the  smart. 

And  the  tear  precious  in  compassion  shed 

For  Her,  who,  pierced  by  sorrow's  thrilling  dart. 

Did  meekly  bear  the  pang  unmerited; 

Meek  as  that  emblem  of  her  lowly  heart 

The  milk-white  Lamb  which  in  a  line  she  led,  — 

And  faithful,  loyal  in  her  innocence. 

Like  the  brave  Lion  slain  in  her  defence. 

Notes  could  we  hear  as  of  a  faery  shell 
Attuned  to  words  with  sacred  wisdom  fraught; 

f  85  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Free  Fancy  prized  each  specious  miracle, 
And  all  its  6ner  inspiration  caught; 
Till  in  the  bosom  of  our  rustic  Cell, 
We  by  a  lamentable  change  were  taught 
That  "bliss  with  mortal  Man  may  not  abide": 
How  nearly  joy  and  sorrow  arc  allied! 

For  us  the  stream  of  6ction  ceased  to  flow, 
For  us  the  voice  of  melody  was  mute. 
—  But,  as  soft  gales  dissolve  the  dreary  snow. 
And  give  the  timid  herbage  leave  to  shoot, 
Heaven's  breathing  influence  failed  not  to  bestow 
A  timely  promise  of  unlooked-for  fruit, 
Fair  fruit  of  pleasure  and  serene  content 
From  blossoms  wild  of  fancies  innocent. 

It  soothed  us  ■ —  it  beguiled  us  —  then,  to  hear 
Once  more  of  troubles  wrought  by  magic  spell; 
And  griefs  whose  aery  motion  comes  not  near 
The  pangs  that  tempt  the  Spirit  to  rebel: 
Then,  with  mild  ITna  in  her  sober  cheer. 
High  over  hill  and  low  adown  the  dell 
Again  we  wandered,  willing  to  partake 
All  that  she  suffered  for  her  dear  Lord's  sake. 

Then,  too,  this  Song  of  mine  once  more  could  please, 

Where  anguish,  strange  as  dreams  of  restless  sleep. 

Is  tempered  and  allayed  by  sympathies 

Aloft  ascending,  and  descending  deep. 

Even  to  the  inferior  Kinds;  whom  forest-trees 

Protect  from  beating  sunb(>ams,  and  the  sweep 

Of  the  sharj)  winds;  —  fair  Creatures!  —  to  whom  Heaven 

A  calm  and  sinless  life,  with  love,  hath  given. 

This  tragic  Story  cheered  us;  for  it  speaks 
Of  female  patience  winning  firm  repose; 
And,  of  the  recomi)ense  that  conscience  seeks, 
A  iiright,  encouraging,  example  shows; 

[   S(i   I 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Needful  when  o'er  wide  realms  the  tempest  breaks. 
Needful  amid  life's  ordinary  woes;  — 
Hence,  not  for  them  unfitted  who  would  bless 
A  happy  hour  with  holier  happiness. 

He  serves  the  Muses  erringly  and  ill. 
Whose  aim  is  pleasure  light  and  fugitive: 
Oh,  that  my  mind  were  equal  to  fulfil 
The  comprehensive  mandate  which  they  give  — 
Vain  aspiration  of  an  earnest  will! 
Yet  iu  this  moral  Strain  a  power  may  live. 
Beloved  Wife!  such  solace  to  impart 
As  it  hath  yielded  to  thy  tender  heart. 
Rydal  Mount,  Westmoreland, 

April  20,  1815. 


"Action  is  transitory  —  ^"a  step,  a  blow. 
The  motion  of  a  muscle  —  this  way  or  that  — 
'T  is  dene;  and  in  the  after- vacancy 
We  wonder  at  ourselves  like  men  betrayed: 
Suffering  is  permanent,  obscure  and  dark. 
And  has  the  nature  of  infinity. 
Yet  through  that  darkness  (infinite  though  it  seem 
And  irremoveable)  gracious  openings  lie. 
By  which  the  soul  —  with  patient  steps  of  thought 
Now  toiling,  wafted  now  on  wings  of  prayer  — 
May  pass  in  hope,  and,  though  from  mortal  bonds 
Yet  undelivered,  rise  with  sure  ascent 
Even  to  the  fountain-head  of  peace  divine." 


"They  that  deny  a  God,  destroy  Man's  nobility:  for  cer- 
tainly Man  is  of  kinn  to  the  Beast  by  his  Body;  and  if  he  be 
not  of  kinn  to  God  by  his  Spirit,  he  is  a  base,  ignoble  Creature. 
It  destroys  likewise  Magnanimity,  and  the  raising  of  humane 
Nature:  for  take  an  example  of  a  Dogg,  and  mark  what  a 
generosity  and  courage  he  will  put  on,  when  he  finds  himself 

[  87  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

maintained  by  a  Man,  who  to  him  is  instead  of  a  God,  or 
MeHor  Natura.  Which  courage  is  manifestly  such,  as  that 
Creature  without  that  confidence  of  a  better  Nature  than 
liis  own  could  never  attain.  So  Man,  when  he  resteth  and 
assureth  himself  upon  Divine  protection  and  favour,  gather- 
eth  a  force  and  faith  which  human  Nature  in  itself  could  not 
obtain." 

Lord  Bacon. 


[  88] 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

CANTO  FIRST 

From  Bolton's  old  monastic  tower  ^^ 
The  bells  ring  loud  with  gladsome  power; 
The  sun  shines  bright;  the  fields  are  gay 
With  people  in  their  best  array 
Of  stole  and  doublet,  hood  and  scarf. 
Along  the  banks  of  crystal  Wharf, 
Through  the  Vale  retired  and  lowly. 
Trooping  to  that  summons  holy. 
And,  up  among  the  moorlands,  see 
What  sprinklings  of  blithe  company! 
Of  lasses  and  of  shepherd  grooms, 
That  down  the  steep  hills  force  their  way, 
Like  cattle  through  the  budded  brooms; 
Path,  or  no  path,  what  care  they? 
And  thus  in  joyous  mood  they  hie 
To  Bolton's  mouldering  Priory. 

What  would  they  there?  —  Full  fifty  years 
That  sumptuous  Pile,  with  all  its  peers. 
Too  harshly  hath  been  doomed  to  taste     Pf 
The  bitterness  of  wrong  and  waste: 
Its  courts  are  ravaged;  but  the  tower 
Is  standing  with  a  voice  of  power,      Pf 
That  ancient  voice  which  wont  to  call 
To  mass  or  some  high  festival ; 
f  89  1 


THE   WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

And  in  the  shattered  fabric's  heart 

Remaineth  one  protected  part; 

A  Chapel. ^^  like  a  wild-bird's  nest,        J 

Closely  embowered  and  trimly  drest; 

And  thither  young  and  old  repair. 

This  Sabbath-day,  for  praise  and  prayer. 

Fast  the  churchyard  fills;  —  anon 
Look  again,  and  they  all  are  gone; 
The  cluster  round  the  porch,  and  the  folk 
Who  sate  in  the  shade  of  the  Prior's  Oak!  ^^ 
And  scarcely  have  they  disappeared 
Ere  the  prelusive  hymn  is  heard :  — 
With  one  consent  the  people  rejoice. 
Filling  the  church  with  a  lofty  voice! 
They  sing  a  service  which  they  feel: 
For  't  is  the  sunrise  now  of  zeal; 
Of  a  pure  faith  the  vernal  prime  — 
In  great  Eliza's  golden  time.         ,0^/^  j^jin^^ 

A  moment  ends  the  fervent  din. 
And  all  is  hushed,  without  and  within; 
For  though  the  priest,  more  tranquilly. 
Recites  the  holy  liturgy. 
The  only  voice  which  you  can  hear 
Is  thc^^er  murmuring  near. 
—  When  soft!  —  the  dusky  trees  between, 
And  down  the  path  through  I  lie  open  green, 
I  90  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Where  is  no  living  thing  to  be  seen; 

And  through  yon  gateway,  where  is  found, 

Beneath  the  arch  with  ivy  bound, 

Free  entrance  to  the  churchyard  ground  — 
(  Comes  ghding  inj'with  lovely  gleam, 
(^Comes  gliding  in^erene  and  slow. 

Soft  and  silent  as  a  dream, 

A  solitary  Doe!  O 

.  .  (MOO- 

White  she  is  as  lily_of  June, 

And  beauteous  as  the  silver  moon 

W^hen  out  of  sight  the  clouds  are  driven 

And  she  is  left  alone  in  heaven; 

Or  like  a  ship  some  gentle  day 

In  sunshine  sailing  far  away, 

A  glittering  ship,  that  hath  the  plain 

Of  ocean  for  her  own  domain.       ^  'PosiJ'iyyOt^t.Sj 

Lie  silent  in  your  graves,  ye  dead!    ^'^uj^JtloQ 
Lie  quiet  in  your  churchyard  bed! 
Ye  living,  tend  your  holy  cares; 
Ye  multitude,  pursue  your  prayers; 
And  blame  not  me  if  my  heart  and  sight 
Are  occupied  with  one  delight! 
'T  is  a  work  for  sabbath  hours 
If  I  with  this  bright  Creature  go: 
Whether  she  be  of  forest  bowers. 
From  the  bowers  of  earth  below; 
f  91   1 


THE  WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Or  a  Spirit  for  one  day  given, 

A  pledge  of  grace  from  purest  heaven. 

What  harmonious  pensive  changes 
Wait  upon  her  as  she  ranges 
Round  and  through  this  Pile  of  state 
Overthrown  and  desolate! 
Now  a  step  or  two  her  way 
Leads  through  space  of  open  day. 
Where  the  enamoured  sunnyjjight   ^XiM^x^L^*-^*^-. 
Brightens  her  that  was  so  bright; 
Now  doth  a  delicate  shadow  fall, 
Falls  upon  her  like  a  oreath, 
From  some  lofty  arch  or  wall, 
As  she  passes  underneath: 
Now  some  gloomy  nook  partakes 
Of  the  glory  that  she  makes,  — 
High-ribbed  vault  of  stone,  or  cell. 
With  perfect  cunning  framed  as  well 
Of  stone,  and  ivy,  and  the  spread 
Of  the  elder's  bushy  head; 
Some  jealous  and  forbidding  cell, 
That  doth  the  living  stars  repel. 
And  where  no  flower  hath  leave  to  dwell. 

The  presence  of  this  wandering  Doe 
Fills  many  a  damp  obscure  recess 
With  lustre  of  a  saintly  show;        J^-0^ 
\  92  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

And,  reappearing,  she  no  less 
Sheds  on  the  flowers  that  round  her  blow 
A  more  than  sunny  liveliness.       ^ 
But  say,  among  these  holy  places, 
Which  thus  assiduously  she  paces, 
Comes  she  with  a  votary's  task. 
Rite  to  perform,  or  boon  to  ask? 
Fair  Pilgrim !  harbours  she  a  sense  UU  ■*'^  ^ 

Of  sorrow%  or  of  reverence?  /  .    /i    ^ 

Can  she  be  grieved  for  quire  or  shrme. 
Crushed  as  if  by  wrath  divine? 
For  what  survives  of  house  where  God 
Was  worshipped,  or  where  Man  abode; 
For  old  magnificence  undone; 
Or  for  the  gentler  work  begun 
By  Nature,  softening  and  concealing. 
And  busy  with  a  hand  of  healing? 
Mourns  she  for  lordly  chamber's  hearth 
That  to  the  sapling  ash  gives  birth; 
For  dormitory's  length  laid  bare 
Where  the  wild  rose  blossoms  fair; 
Or  altar,  whence  the  cross  was  rent. 
Now  rich  with  mossy  ornament? 
—  She  sees  a  warrior  carved  in  stone. 
Among  the  thick  weeds,  stretched  alone; 
A  warrior,  with  his  shield  of  pride 
f  93  1 


THE  WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Cleaving  humbly  to  his  side, 
And  hands  in  resignation  prest. 
Palm  to  palm,  on  his  tranquil  breast; 
As  little  she  regards  the  sight 
As  a  common  creature  might : 
If  she  be  doomed  to  inward  care. 
Or  service,  it  must  lie  elsewhere. 
—  But  hers  are  eyes  serenely  bright, 
And  on  she  moves  — -  with  pace  how^  light ! 
Nor  spares  to  stoop  her  head,  and  taste 
The  dewy  turf  with  flowers  bestrown; 
And  thus  she  fares,  until  at  last 
c-^fUhj^       \  Beside  the  ridge  of  a  gi'assy  grave 


9  \  In  quietness  she  lays  her  down; 

Gentle  as  a  weary  wave       pV  «^^  -^ 
Sinks,  when  the  summer  breeze  hath  died 
Against  an  anchored  vessel's  side; 
Even  so,  without  distress,  doth  she 
Lie  down  in  peace,  and  lovingly. 
The  day  is  placid  in  its  going, 
To  a  lingering  motion  bound. 
Like  the  crystal  stream  now  flowing 
With  its  softest  summer  sound:    OLH^Wi/e 
So  the  balmy  minutes  pass, 
While  this  radiant  Creature  lies 
Couched  upon  the  dewy  grass, 
f  91  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Pensively  with  downcast  eyes. 

—  But  now  again  the  people  raise 

With  aw^ul  cheer  a  voice  of  praise; 

It  is  the  last,  the  parting  song; 

And  from  the  temple  forth  they  throng. 

And  quickly  spread  themselves  abroad, 

While  each  pursues  his  several  road. 

But  some  —  a  variegated  band 

Of  middle-aged,  and  old,  and  young, 

And  little  children  by  the  hand 

Upon  their  leading  mothers  hung  — 

With  mute  obeisance  gladly  i^aid 

Turn  towards  the  spot,  where,  full  in  view, 

The  white  Doe,  to  her  service  true. 

Her  sabbath  couch  has  made.      ^^-^^-e-eC 

It  was  a  solitary  mound; 
Which  two  spears'  length  of  level  ground 
Did  from  all  other  gi'aves  divide: 
As  if  in  some  respect  of  pride; 
Or  melancholy's  sickly  mood, 
Still  shy  of  human  neighbourhood; 
Or  guilt,  that  humbly  would  express 
A  penitential  loneliness. 

"Look,  there  she  is,  my  Child!  draw  near; 
She  fears  not,  wherefore  should  we  fear? 
She  means  no  harm";  —  but  still  the  Boy, 
f  95  1 


THE  WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

To  whom  the  words  were  softly  said, 
Hung  back,  and  smiled,  and  blushed  for  joy, 
A  shame-faced  blush  of  glowang  red ! 
Again  the  Mother  whispered  low, 
'Now  you  have  seen  the  famous  Doe; 
From  Rylstone  she  hath  found  her  way 
Over  the  hills  this  sabbath  day; 
Her  work,  whate'er  it  be,  is  done. 
And  she  will  depart  when  we  are  gone; 
Thus  doth  she  keep,  from  year  to  year. 
Her  sabbath  mourning,  foul  or  fair." 

Bright  was  the  Creature,  as  in  dreams 
The  Boy  had  seen  her,  yea,  more  bright; 
But  is  she  truly  what  she  seems?    -^ — 
He  asks  with  insecure  delight, 
Asks  of  himself,  and  doubts,  —  and  still 
The  doubt  returns  against  his  will: 
Though  he,  and  all  the  standers-by, 
Could  tell  a  tragic  history 
f,         .  -T  Of  facts  divulged,  wherein  appear 
^    /y\w^      Substantial  motive,  reason  clear, 
l)  iP^  Why  thus  the  milk-white  Doe  is  found 

Couchant  beside  that  lonely  mound; 
And  why  she  duly  loves  to  pace 
The  circuit  of  this  hallowed  place. 
Nor  to  the  Child's  in((uiring  iniiid 
f   DJi   1 


THE  WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Is  such  perplexity  confined: 

For,  spite  of  sober  Truth  that  sees 

A  world  of  fixed  remembrances 

Which  to  this  mystery  belong. 

If,  undeceived/my  skill  can  trace     j:*^^^^^       a^hoA' 


The  characters  Tjf^very  face. 
There  lack  not  strange  delusion  here. 
Conjecture  vague,  and  idle  fear. 
And  superstitious  fancies  strong. 
Which  do  the  gentle  Creature  wrong. 

That  bearded,  staff-supported  Sire  — 
Who  in  his  boyhood  often  fed 
Full  cheerily  on  convent -bread 
And  heard  old  tales  by  the  convent-fire. 
And  to  his  grave  will  go  with  scars. 
Relics  of  long  and  distant  wars  — 
That  Old  Man,  studious  to  expound 
The  spectacle,  is  mounting  high 
To  days  of  dim  antiquity; 

When  Ladv  Aaliza  mourned  ^^  a£>^^^'^  '^ '^^ 

Her  Son,  and  felt  in  her  despair  "^  y// 

The  pang  of  unavailing  prayer; 
Her  Son  in  Wharf's  abysses  drowned. 
The  noble  Boy  of  Egremound. 
From  which  affliction  —  when  the  grace 
Of  God  had  in  her  heart  found  place  — 
[  97  1 


,{y      -5i 


THE  WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

A  pious  structure,  fair  to  see, 

Rose  up,  this  stately  Priory! 

The  Lady's  work;  —  but  now  laid  low; 

To  the  grief  of  her  soul  that  doth  come  and  go, 

In  the  beautiful  form  of  this  innocent  Doe : 

Which,  though  seemingly  doomed  in  its  breast 

to  sustain 
A  softened  remembrance  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
Is  spotless,  and  holy,  and  gentle,  and  bright; 
And  glides  o'er  the  earth  like  an  an^el  of  light. 

Pass,  pass  who  will,  yon  chantry  door;  ^^ 
And,  through  the  chink  in  the  fractured  floor 
Look  down,  and  see  a  griesly  sight; 
A  vault  where  the  bodies  are  buried  upright! 
There,  face  by  face,  and  hand  by  hand, 
The  Claphams  and  Mauleverers  stand; 
And,  in  his  place,  among  son  and  sire. 
Is  John  dc  Clapham,  that  fierce  Esquire, 
A  valiant  man,  and  a  name  of  dread 
In  the  ruthless  wars  of  the  White  and  Red; 
Who  dragged  Earl  Pembroke  from  Banbury 

church 
And  smote  off  his  head  on  the  stones  of  the 

I)orcli ! 
Look  down  among  them,  if  you  dare; 
Oft  does  the  White  Doe  loiter  there, 
f  OH  1 


THE   WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Prying  into  the  darksome  rent;  ^ 
Nor  can  it  be  with  good  intent :  ^ 
X  So  thinks  that  Dame  of  haughty  air. 
Who  hath  a  Page  her  book  to  hold. 
And  wears  a  frontlet  edged  with  gold. 
Harsh  thoughts  with  her  high  mood  agree  — 
Who  counts  among  her  ancestry  -        ,      K^y'*'^^ 

Earl  Pembroke,  slain  so  impiously! 

That  slender  Youth,  a  scholar  pale,    /Y\j»XUnaJJL^ 
From  Oxford  come  to  his  native  vale. 
He  also  hath  his  own  conceit : 
It  is,  thinks  he,  the  gracious  Fairy,    -  ^C>cl 
Wlio  loved  the  Shepherd-lord  to  meet  ^^ 
In  his  wanderings  solitary: 
Wild  notes  she  in  his  hearing  sang, 
A  song  of  Nature's  hidden  powers; 
That  whistled  like  the  wind,  and  rang 
Among  the  rocks  and  holly  bowers. 
'T  was  said  that  She  all  shapes  could  wear; 
And  oftentimes  before  him  stood. 
Amid  the  trees  of  some  thick  wood. 
In  semblance  of  a  lady  fair; 
And  taught  him  signs,  and  showed  him  sightSj 
In  Craven's  dens,  on  Cumbrian  heights; 
When  under  cloud  of  fear  he  lay, 
A  shepherd  clad  in  homely  grey; 
[99] 


THE   WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Nor  left  him  at  his  later  day. 
And  hence,  when  he,  with  spear  and  shield, 
Rode  full  of  years  to  Flodden-field, 
His  eye  could  see  the  hidden  spring, 
And  how  the  current  was  to  flow; 
The  fatal  end  of  Scotland's  King, 
And  all  that  hopeless  overthrow. 
But  not  in  wars  did  he  delight, 
This  Clifford  wished  for  worthier  might; 
Nor  in  broad  pomp,  or  courtly  state; 
Him  his  own  thoughts  did  elevate,  — 
Most  happy  in  the  shy  recess 
Of  Barden's  lowly  quietness. 
And  choice  of  studious  friends  had  he 
Of  Bolton's  dear  fraternity; 
Who,  standing  on  this  old  church  tower. 
In  many  a  calm  propitious  hour. 
Perused,  with  him,  the  starry  sky; 
Or,  in  their  cells,  with  him  did  pry 
For  other  lore,  —  by  keen  desire 
Urged  to  close  toil  with  chemic  fire; 
In  quest  belike  of  transmutations 
Rich  as  the  mine's  most  bright  creations. 
But  they  and  their  good  works  are  fled. 
And  all  is  now  disquieted  — 
And  peace  is  none,  for  living  or  dead! 
[    100  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Ah,  pensive  Scholar,  think  not  so,     f^^^  xyUMri" 

But  look  again  at  the  radiant  Doe!         ^^jAT' 

What  quiet  watch  she  seems  to  keep. 

Alone,  beside  that  grassy  heap ! 

Why  mention  other  thoughts  unmeet 

For  vision  so  composed  and  sweet? 

While  stand  the  people  in  a  ring. 

Gazing,  doubting,  questioning; 

Yea,  many  overcome  in  spite 

Of  recollections  clear  and  bright; 

Which  yet  do  unto  some  impart 

An  undisturbed  repose  of  heart. 

And  all  the  assembly  own  a  law 

Of  orderly  respect  and  awe; 

But  see  —  they  vanish  one  by  one. 

And  last,  the  Doe  herself  is  gone. 

Harp!  we  have  been  full  long  beguiled 

By  vague  thoughts,  lured  by  fancies  wild; 

To  which,  with  no  reluctant  strings. 

Thou  hast  attuned  thy  murmurings; 
\y         ^^^  ^^°^'  before  this  File  we  stand 
v^i  -,       InXsolitude,  and  utter  peace: 
\}j     .         But)>  Harp!  thy  murmurs  may  not  cease  — 


y)0     ^    A  Spirit,  with  his  angelic  wings. 
In  soft  and  breeze-like  visitings. 


^1 


101 


THE  WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Has  touched  thee  —  and  a  Spirit's  hand: 
A  voice  is  with  us  —  a  command 
To  chant,  in  strains  of  heavenly  glory, 
A  tale  of  tears,  a  mortal  story! 


102 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

CANTO  SECOND 

The  Harp  in  lowliness  obeyed; 

And  first  we  sang  of  the  greenwood  shade 

And  a  solitary  Maid; 

Beginning,  where  the  song  must  end, 

With  her,  and  with  her  sylvan  Friend; 

The  Friend  who  stood  before  her  sight, 

Her  only  unextinguished  light; 

Her  last  companion  in  a  dearth 

Of  love,  upon  a  hopeless  earth. 

For  She  it  was  —  this  Maid,  who  wrought 
Meekly,  with  foreboding  thought. 
In  vermeil  colours  and  in  gold 
An  unblest  work;  which,  standing  by. 
Her  Father  did  with  joy  behold,  — 
Exulting  in  its  imagery; 
A  Banner,  fashioned  to  fulfil 
Too  perfectly  his  headstrong  will: 
For  on  this  Banner  had  her  hand 
Embroidered  (such  her  Sire's  command) 
The  s^red  Cross;  and  figured  there 
The  fiye^ear  woundsjnir  Lord  did  bear; 
Full  soon  to  be  uplifted  high, 
And  float  in  rueful  company! 

It  was  the  time  when  England's  Queen 
f  103  1 


THE  WHITE   DOE  OF   RYLSTONE 

Twelve  years  had  reigned,  a  Sovereign  dread; 

Nor  yet  the  restless  crown  had  been 

Disturbed  upon  her  virgin  head; 

But  now  the  inly-working  North 

Was  ripe  to  send  its  thousands  forth, 

A  potent  vassalage,  to  fight 

In  Percy's  and  in  Neville's  right, 

Two  Earls  fast  leagued  in  discontent, 

Who  gave  their  wishes  open  vent; 

And  boldly  urged  a  general  plea. 

The  rites  of  ancient  piety 

To  be  triumphantly  restored. 

By  the  stern  justice  of  the  sword! 

And  that  same  Banner,  on  whose  breast 

The  blameless  Lady  had  exprest 

Memorials  chosen  to  give  life 

And  sunshine  to  a  dangerous  strife; 

That  Banner,  waiting  for  the  Call, 

Stood  quietly  in  Rylstonc-hall. 

It  came;  and  Francis  Norton  said, 
*0  Father!  rise  not  in  this  fray  — 
The  hairs  are  white  upon  your  head; 
Dear  Father,  hear  me  when  I  say 
It  is  for  you  too  late  a  day! 
Bethink  you  of  your  own  good  name: 
A  just  and  gracious  Queen  have  we, 
f  104  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

A  pure  religion,  and  the  claim 

Of  peace  on  our  humanity.  —  ^  , 

'T  is  meet  that  I  endure  your  scorn;     a  ji^ 

I  am  your  son,  your  eldest  born;  aJ"'^ 

But  not  for  lordship  or  for  land. 

My  Father,  do  I  clasp  your  knees; 

The  Banner  touch  not,  stay  your  hand, 

This  multitude  of  men  disband, 

And  live  at  home  in  blameless  ease; 

For  these  my  brethren's  sake,  for  me; 

And,  most  of  all,  for  Emily!" 

Tumultuous  noises  filled  the  hall; 
And  scarcely  could  the  Father  hear 
That  name  —  pronounced  with  a  dying  fall  ^ 
The  name  of  his  only  Daughter  dear. 
As  on  the  Banner  which  stood  near 
He  glanced  a  look  of  holy  pride, 
And  his  moist  eyes  were  glorified; 
Then  did  he  seize  the  staff,  and  say: 
"Thou,  Richard,  bear'st  thy  father's  name,  -Q^ 

Keep  thou  this  ensign  till  the  day  j^  O''^ 

When  I  of  thee  require  the  same:  l[jl  /^ 

Thy  place  be  on  my  better  hand;  —        '^    fjj^ 
And  seven  as  true  as  thou,  I  see. 
Will  cleave  to  this  good  cause  and  me." 
He  spake,  and  eight  brave  sons  straightway 
f  105  1 


V 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

All  followed  him,  a  gallant  band! 

Thus,  with  his  sons,  when  forth  he  came 
The  sight  was  hailed  with  loud  acclaim 
And  din  of  arms  and  minstrelsy. 
From  all  his  warlike  tenantry. 
All  horsed  and  harnessed  with  him  to  ride,  - 
A  voice  to  which  the  hills  replied! 

But  Francis,  in  the  vacant  hall. 
Stood  silent  under  dreary  weight,  — 
A  phantasm,  in  which  roof  and  wall 
Shook,  tottered,  swam  before  his  sight; 
A  phantasm  like  a  dream  of  night! 
Thus  overwhelmed,  and  desolate. 
He  found  his  way  to  a  postern-gate; 
And,  when  he  waked,  his  languid  eye 
Was  on  the  calm  and  silent  sky; 
With  air  about  him  breathing  sweet. 
And  earth's  green  grass  beneath  his  feet; 
Nor  did  he  fail  ere  long  to  hear 
A  sound  of  military  cheer. 
Faint  —  but  it  reached  that  sheltered  spot; 
He  heard,  and  it  disturbed  him  not. 

There  stood  he,  leaning  on  a  lance 
Which  he  had  grasped  unknowingly. 
Had  blindly  grasped  in  that  strong  trance. 
That  dimness  of  heart-agony; 
f    10(5  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

There  stood  he,  cleansed  from  the  despair 
And  sorrow  of  his  fruitless  prayer. 
The  past  he  calmly  hath  reviewed: 
But  where  will  be  the  fortitude 
Of  this  brave  man,  when  he  shall  see 
That  Form  beneath  the  spreading  tree. 
And  know^  that  it  is  Emily? 

He  saw  her  where  in  open  view 
,  Qx/j  ^    .     She  sate  beneath  the  spreading  yew  — 
^xj^j^"     1  ^.  Her  head  upon  her  lap,  concealing 
'  -^'-  In  solitude  her  bitter  feeling: 

Might  ever  son  command  a  sire. 
The  act  were  justified  to-day." 
This  to  himself  —  and  to  the  Maid, 
Whom  now  he  had  approached,  he  said  — 
Gone  are  they,  —  they  have  their  desire; 
And  I  with  thee  one  hour  will  stay. 
To  give  thee  comfort  if  I  may." 

She  heard,  but  looked  not  up,  nor  spake; 
And  sorrow  moved  him  to  partake 
Her  silence;  then  his  thoughts  turned  round. 
And  fervent  words  a  passage  found. 

"Gone  are  they,  bravely,  though  misled; 
With  a  dear  Father  at  their  head! 
The  Sons  obey  a  natural  lord; 
The  Father  had  given  solemn  word 
f  107  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

To  noble  Percy;  and  a  force 
Still  stronger,  bends  him  to  his  course. 
This  said,  our  tears  to-day  may  fall 
As  at  an  innocent  funeraL_ 
In  deep  and  awful  channel  runs 
This  sympathy  of  Sire  and  Sons; 
Untried  our  Brothers  have  been  loved 
With  heart  by  simple  nature  moved; 
And  now  their  faithfulness  is  proved: 
For  faithful  we  must  call  them,  bearing 
That  soul  of  conscientious  daring. 
—  There  were  they  all  in  circle  —  there 
Stood  Richard,  Ambrose,  Christopher,  J 

John  with  a  sword  that  will  not  fail,     ,      ^^"^^aM^ 
And  Marmaduke  in  fearless  mail,      OlA^J/iL  ^, 
And  those  bright  Twins  were  side  by  side; 
And  there,  by  fresh  hopes  beautified, 
Stood  He,  whose  arm  yet  lacks  the  power 
Of  man,  our  youngest,  fairest  flower! 
I,  by  the  right  of  eldest  born. 
And  in  a  second  father's  place, 
Presumed  to  grapple  with  their  scorn. 
And  meet  their  pity  face  to  face; 
Yea,  trusting  in  God's  holy  aid, 
I  to  my  Father  knelt  and  prayed ; 
And  one,  the  pensive  Marmaduke, 
f   108  1 


THE   WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Methought,  was  yielding  inwardly, 
And  would  have  laid  his  purpose  by. 
But  for  a  glance  of  his  Father's  eye. 
Which  I  myself  could  scarcely  brook. 

"  Then  be  we,  each  and  all,  forgiven! 
Thou,  chiefly  thou,  my  Sister  dear, 
Whose  pangs  are  registered  in  heaven  — 
The  stifled  sigh,  the  hidden  tear. 
And  smiles,  that  dared  to  take  their  place. 
Meek  filial  smiles,  upon  thy  face. 
As  that  unhallowed  Banner  grew  "^ 

Beneath  a  loving  old  Man's  view. 
Thy  part  is  done  —  thy  painful  part; 
Be  thou  then  satisfied  in  heart ! 
A  further,  though  far  easier,  task 
Than  thine  hath  been,  my  duties  ask; 
With  theirs  my  efforts  cannot  blend, 
I  cannot  for  such  cause  contend; 
Their  aims  I  utterly  forswear;  "^      i  J^ 

But  I  in  body  will  be  there.  (  .       ax:) 

Unarmed  and  naked  will  I  go,  \    ^        r  ^ 

Be  at  their  side,  come  weal  or  woe:^  ^     \ 
On  kind  occasions  I  may  wait. 
See,  hear,  obstruct,  or  mitigate. 
Bare  breast  I  take  and  an  empty  hand."  ^^ 
Therewith  he  threw  away  the  lance, 
[  109  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

Which  he  had  grasped  in  that  strong  trance, 
Spurned  it,  Uke  something  that  would  stand 
Between  him  and  the  pure  intent 
Of  love  on  which  his  soul  was  bent. 

"  For  thee,  for  thee,  is  left  the  sense 
Of  trial  past  without  offence 
To  God  or  man;  such  innocence, 
Such  consolation,  and  the  excess 
Of  an  unmerited  distress; 
In  that  thy  very  strength  must  lie. 
—  O  Sister,  I  could  prophesy !       3  u  c^-e^^^jud  ^ 
The  time  is  come  that  rings  the  knell 
Of  all  we  loved,  and  loved  so  well : 
Hope  nothing,  if  I  thus  may  speak 
To  thee,  a  woman,  and  thence  weak: 
Hope  nothing,  I  repeat;  for  we 
Are  doomed  to  perish  utterly : 
'T  is  meet  that  thou  with  me  divide 
The  thought  while  I  am  by  thy  side. 
Acknowledging  a  grace  in  this, 
A  comfort  in  the  dark  abyss. 
But  look  not  for  me  when  I  am  gone. 
And  be  no  farther  wrought  upon: 
Farewell  all  wishes,  all  debate. 
All  prayers  for  this  cause,  or  for  that ! 
Weep,  if  that  aid  thee;  but  depend 
f   110  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Upon  no  help  of  outward  friend; 
Espouse  thy  doom  at  once,  and  cleave 
To  fortitude  without  reprieve. 
For  we  must  fall,  both  we  and  ours  — 
This  Mansion  and  these  pleasant  bowers, 
Walks,  pools,  and  arbours,  homestead,  hall  — ■ 
Our  fate  is  theirs,  will  reach  them  all; 
The  young  horse  must  forsake  his  manger. 
And  learn  to  glory  in  a  Stranger; 
The  hawk  forget  his  perch;  the  hound 
Be  parted  from  his  ancient  ground: 
The  blast  will  sweep  us  all  away  — 
One  desolation,  one  decay! 
And  even  this  Creatm-e!"  which  words  say  in":. 
He  pointed  to  a  lovely  Doe,  (J-f\SL  J~^0^ 

A  few  steps  distant,  feeding,  straying; 
Fair  creature,  and  more  white  than  snow! 
'Even  she  will  to  her  peaceful  woods 
Return,  and  to  her  murmuring  floods. 
And  be  in  heart  and  soul  the  same 
She  was  before  she  hither  came; 
Ere  she  had  learned  to  love  us  all. 

Herself  beloved  in  Rylstone-hall.  g<L     i 

—  But  thou,  my  Sister,  doomed  to  be  j* . ' 

The  last  leaf  on  a  blasted  tree;        .nuJAf^xJP^ 
If  not  in  vain  we  breathed  the  breath 
[  111  ] 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

Together  of  a  purer  faith; 

If  hand  in  hand  we  have  been  led, 

And  thou,  (O  happy  thought  this  day!) 

Not  seldom  foremost  in  the  way; 

If  on  one  thought  our  minds  have  fed, 

And  we  have  in  one  meaning  read; 

If,  when  at  home  our  private  weal 

Hath  suffered  from  the  shock  of  zeal. 

Together  we  have  learned  to  prize 

Forbearance  and  self-sacrifice; 

If  we  like  ^ombatiLnts.  have  fared,      JU 

And  for  this  issue  been  prepared; 

If  thou  art  beautiful,  and  youth 

And  thought  endue  thee  with  all  truth  — 

Be  strong;  — be  worthy  of  the  grace 

Of  God,  and  fill  thy  destined  place: 

A  Soul,  by  force  of  sorrows  high. 

Uplifted  to  the  purest  sky        ^       r^ 

Of  undisturbed  humanity!"        \ 

He  ended,  —  or  she  heard  no  more;      v>0-^^ 
He  led  her  from  the  yew-tree  shade. 
And  at  the  mansion's  silent  door. 
He  kissed  the  consecrated  ]\Iaid; 
And  down  the  valley  then  i)ursued. 
Alone,  the  armed  Multitude. 

[  112  1 


\P 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

CANTO  THIRD 

Now  joy  for  you  who  from  the  towers       \ 

Of  Brancepeth^^  look  in  doubt  and  fear,    /     ff^''^^^''<- 

Telling  melancholy  hours!  f         Huifj^'- 

Proclaim  it,  let  your  Masters  hear  J 

That  Norton  with  his  band  is  near! 

The  watchmen  from  their  station  high 

Pronounced  the  word,  —  and  the  Earls  descry. 

Well-pleased,  the  armed  Company 

Marching  down  the  banks  of  Were. 
Said  fearless  Norton  to  the  pair 

Gone  forth  to  greet  him  on  the  plain  — 
"This  meeting,  noble  Lords!  looks  fair,      V^j&^^-^^'^^^fxJ' 

I  bring  with  me  a  goodly  train;  /0|^-*^ 

Their  hearts  are  with  you:  hill  and  dale 

Have  helped  us :  Ure  we  crossed,  and  Swale, 

And  horse  and  harness  followed  —  see 

The  best  part  of  their  Yeomanry ! 

—  Stand  forth,  my  Sons!  —  these  eight  are  mine. 

Whom  to  this  service  I  commend; 
-   Which  way  soe'er  our  fate  incline. 

These  will  be  faithful  to  the  end; 

They  are  my  all"  —  voice  failed  him  here^ 
"My  all  save  one,  a  Daughter  dear! 

Whom  I  have  left.  Love's  mildest  birth, 
[  113  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

The  meekest  Child  on  this  blessed  earth. 
I  had  —  but  these  are  by  my  side, 
These  Eight,  and  this  is  a  day  of  pride! 
The  time  is  ripe.   With  festive  din 
Lo!  how  the  people  are  flocking  in,  — 
Like  hungry  fowl  to  the  feeder's  hand 
When  snow  lies  heavy  upon  the  land." 

He  spake  bare  truth;  for  far  and  near 
From  every  side  came  noisy  swarms 
Of  Peasants  in  their  homely  gear; 
And,  mixed  with  these,  to  Brancepeth  came 
Grave  Gentry  of  estate  and  name. 
And  Captains  known  for  worth  in  arms 
And  prayed  the  Earls  in  self-defence 
To  rise,  and  prove  their  innocence.  — 
'Rise,  noble  Earls,  put  forth  your  might 
For  holy  Church,  and  the  People's  right!" 

The  Norton  fixed,  at  this  demand. 
His  eye  upon  Northumberland, 
And  .said:  "The  Minds  of  Men  will  own 
No  loyal  rest  while  England's  Crown 
Remains  without  an  Heir,  the  bait 
Of  .strife  and  factions  desperate; 
Who,  paying  deadly  hate  in  kind 
Through  all  things  else,  in  this  can  find 
A  iiiiihial  liopc,  a  common  mind; 
I   11^  ] 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

And  plot,  and  pant  to  overwhelm 
All  ancient  honour  in  the  realm. 

—  Brave  Earls !  to  whose  heroic  veins 
Our  noblest  blood  is  given  in  trust. 
To  you  a  suffering  State  complains, 
And  ye  must  raise  her  from  the  dust. 
With  wishes  of  still  bolder  scope 

On  you  we  look,  with  dearest  hope; 
Even  for  our  Altars  —  for  the  prize, 
In  Heaven,  of  life  that  never  dies; 
For  the  old  and  holy  Church  we  mourn. 
And  must  in  joy  to  her  return. 
Behold!"  —  and  from  his  Son  whose  stand 
Was  on  his  right,  from  that  guardian  hand 
He  took  the  Banner,  and  unfurled 
The  precious  folds  —  "behold,"  said  he, 
"The  ransom  of  a  sinful  world;  -^"l*-^ 

Let  this  your  preservation  be;  ^^^""^^^^^ 

The  wounds  of  hands  and  feet  and  side. 
And  the  sacred  Cross  on  which  Jesus  died. 

—  This  bring  I  from  an  ancient  hearth. 
These  Records  wrought  in  pledge  of  love 
By  hands  of  no  ignoble  birth, 

A  Maid  o'er  whom  the  blessed  Dove 
Vouchsafed  in  gentleness  to  brood 
While  she  the  holy  work  pursued." 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

"Uplift  the  Standard!"  was  the  cry 
From  all  the  listeners  that  stood  round, 

"Plant  it,  —  by  this  we  live  or  die." 
The  Norton  ceased  not  for  that  sound. 
But  said:  "The  praj^er  which  ye  have  heard. 
Much-injured  Earls!  by  these  preferred. 
Is  offered  to  the  Saints,  the  sigh 
Of  tens  of  thousands,  secretly." 

"Uplift  it!"  cried  once  more  the  Band, 
And  then  a  thoughtful  pause  ensued; 

"Uplift  it!"  said  Northumberland  — 
Whereat,  from  all  the  multitude 
WTio  saw  the  Banner  reared  on  high 
In  all  its  dread  emblazonry, 
A  voice  of  uttermost  joy  brake  out: 
Tlie  transport  was  rolled  down  the  river  of  Were, 
And  Durliam,  the  time-honoured  Durham,  did  hear. 
And  the  towers  of  Saint  Cuthbert  were  stirred  by 
tlic  shout ! 
Now  was  the  North  in  arms:  —  they  shine 
In  warlike  trim  from  Tweed  to  Tyne, 
At  Percy's  voice:  and  Neville  sees 
His  Followers  gathering  in  from  Tees, 
From  Were,  and  all  the  little  rills 
Concealed  among  the  forked  hills  — 
Seven  hundred  Knights,  Retainers  all 

1  iir.  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Of  Neville,  at  their  Master's  call 

Had  sate  together  in  Raby  Hall! 

Such  strength  that  Earldom  held  of  yore; 

Nor  wanted  at  this  time  rich  store 

Of  well-appointed  chivalry. 

—  Not  loth  the  sleepy  lance  to  wield, 

And  greet  the  old  paternal  shield. 

They  heard  the  summons;  —  and,  furthermore, 

Horsemen  and  Foot  of  each  degree, 

Unbound  by  pledge  of  fealty, 

Appeared,  with  free  and  open  hate 

Of  novelties  in  Church  and  State; 

Knight,  burgher,  yeoman,  and  esquire; 

And  Romish  priest,  in  priest's  attire. 

And  thus,  in  arms,  a  zealous  Band 

Proceeding  under  joint  command. 

To  Durham  first  their  course  they  bear; 

And  in  Saint  Cuthbert's  ancient  seat 

Sang  mass,  —  and  tore  the  book  of  prayer,  — 

And  trod  the  bible  beneath  their  feet. 

Thence  marching  southward  smooth  and  free 
'They  mustered  their  host  at  Wetherby, 
Full  sixteen  thousand  fair  to  see,"  ^^ 
The  Choicest  Warriors  of  the  North ! 
But  none  for  beauty  and  for  worth 
Like  those  eight  Sons  —  who,  in  a  ring, 

[  ni  ] 


'5 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

(Ripe  men,  or  blooming  in  life's  spring) 
Each  with  a  lance,  erect  and  tall, 
A  falchion,  and  a  buckler  small. 
Stood  by  their  Sire,  on  Clifford-moor, 
To  guard  the  Standard  which  he  bore. 
On  foot  they  girt  their  Father  round; 
And  so  will  keep  the  appointed  ground 
Where'er  their  march:  no  steed  will  he 
Henceforth  bestride;  — triumjpliantly, 
He  stands  upon  the  grass;]^so^       — ^ 
Trusting  himself  to  the  earth,  and  God) 
^.  Rare  sight  to  embolden  and  inspire! 

(\    r^/  Proud  was  the  field  of  Sons  and  Sire; 

'       i^  Of  him  the  most;  and,  sooth  to  say, 

No  shape  of  man  in  all  the  array 
So  graced  the  sunshine  of  that  day. 
The  monumental  pomp  of  age 
Was  with  this  goodly  Personage; 
A  stature  undepressed  in  size. 
Unbent,  which  rather  seemed  to  rise, 
In  open  victory  o'er  the  weight 
Of  seventy  years,  to  loftier  height; 
INIagnific  limbs  of  withered  state; 
A  face  to  fear  and  venerate; 
Eyes  dark  and  strong;  and  on  his  head 
Bright  locks  of  silver  hair,  thick  spread, 
f  118  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Which  a  brown  morion  half-concealed. 
Light  as  a  hunter's  of  the  field; 
And  thus,  with  girdle  round  his  waist, 
Whereon  the  Banner-staff  might  rest 
At  need,  he  stood,  advancing  high 
The  glittering,  floating  Pageantry. 

Who  sees  him?  —  thousands  see,  and  One 
W^ith  unparticipated  gaze; 

Who,  'mong  those  thousands,  friend  hath  none. 
And  treads  in  solitary  ways. 
He,  following  wheresoe'er  he  might, 
Hath  watched  the  Banner  from  afar. 
As  shepherds  watch  a  lonely  star,  -S 

Or  mariners  the  distant  light 
That  guides  them  through  a  stormy  night. 
And  now,  upon  a  chosen  plot 
Of  rising  ground,  yon  heathy  spot ! 
He  takes  alone  his  far-off  stand. 
With  breast  unmailed,  unweaponed  hand. 
Bold  is  his  aspect;  but  his  eye 
Is  pregnant  with  anxiety. 
While,  like  a  tutelary  Power, 
He  there  stands  fixed  from  hour  to  hour: 
Yet  sometimes  in  more  humble  guise. 
Upon  the  turf-clad  height  he  lies 
Stretched,  herdsman-like,  as  if  to  bask 
[  110  ] 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

In  simsliine  were  his  only  task, 
Or  by  his  mantle's  help  to  find 
A  shelter  from  the  nipping  wind: 
And  thus,  with  short  oblivion  blest. 
His  weary  spirits  gather  rest. 
Again  he  lifts  his  eyes;  and  lo! 
The  pageant  glancing  to  and  fro; 
And  hope  is  wakened  by  the  sight. 
He  thence  may  learn,  ere  fall  of  night, 
Which  way  the  tide  is  doomed  to  flow. 
To  London  were  the  Chieftains  bent; 
But  what  avails  the  bold  intent? 
A  Royal  army  is  gone  forth 
vjj^  To  quell  the  Rising  of  the  North; 

•^^^ y  They  march  with  Dudley  at  their  head, 

V'^  V  ^  And,  in  seven  days'  space,  will  to  York  be  led!  — 

-^^y^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^  mighty  Host  be  raised 

K\(yr  [        Thus  suddenly,  and  brought  so  near? 

The  Earls  upon  each  other  gazed. 
And  Neville's  cheek  grew  pale  with  fear; 
For,  with  a  high  and  valiant  name. 
He  bore  a  heart  of  timid  frame; 
And  bold  if  both  had  been,  yet  they 
Against  so  many  may  not  stay."  ^^ 
Back  therefore  will  they  hie  to  seize 
A  strong  Hold  on  lite  banks  of  Tees; 
I  120  ] 


A 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

There  wait  a  favourable  hour. 
Until  Lord  Dacre  with  his  power 
From  Naworth  come;  and  Howard's  aid 
Be  with  them  openly  displayed. 

While  through  the  Host,  from  man  to  man, 
A  rumour  of  this  purpose  ran. 
The  Standard  trusting  to  the  care 
Of  him  who  heretofore  did  bear 
That  charge,  impatient  Norton  sought 
The  Chieftains  to  unfold  his  thought, 
And  thus  abruptly  spake:  —  "We  yield 
(And  can  it  be?)  an  unfought  field!  — 
How  oft  has  strength,  the  strength  of  Heaven, 
To  few  triumphantly  been  given ! 
Still  do  our  very  children  boast 
Of  mitred  Thurston  21  —  what  a  Host 
He  conquered !  —  Saw  we  not  the  Plain 
(And  flying  shall  behold  again) 
Where  faith  was  proved?  —  while  to  battle  moved 
The  Standard,  on  the  Sacred  Wain 
That  bore  it,  compassed  round  by  a  bold 
Fraternity  of  Barons  old; 
And  with  those  grey-haired  champions  stood. 
Under  the  saintly  ensigns  three. 
The  infant  Heir  of  Mowbray's  blood  — 
All  confident  of  victory!  — 
[  121  ] 


THE   WHITE    DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Shall  Percy  blush,  then,  for  his  name? 
Must  Westmoreland  be  asked  with  shame 
W' hose  were  the  numbers,  where  the  loss. 
In  that  other  day  of  Neville's  Cross  ?  -- 
When  the  Prior  of  Durham  with  holy  hand 
Raised,  as  the  Vision  gave  command, 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Relic  —  far  and  near 
Kenned  on  the  point  of  a  lofty  spear; 
While  the  Monks  prayed  in  Maiden's  Bower 
To  God  descending  in  his  power. 
Less  would  not  at  our  need  be  due 
To  us,  who  war  against  the  Untrue;  — 
The  delegates  of  Heaven  we  rise. 
Convoked  the  imiiiiius  to  chMtlse : 
W^e,  we,  the  sanctities  of  old 
W'ould  re-establish  and  uphold: 
Be  warned"  —  His  zeal  the  Chiefs  confounded. 
But  word  was  given,  and  the  trumpet  sounded: 
Back  through  the  melancholy  Host 
Went  Norton,  and  resumed  his  post. 
Alas!  thought  he,  and  have  I  borne 
This  Banner  raised  with  joyful  pride. 
This  hope  of  all  posterity. 
By  those  dread  symbols  sanctified; 
Thus  to  become  at  once  the  scorn 
Of  babbling  winds  as  they  go  by, 
[  122  ]   ' 


THE  WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTOXE 

A  spot  of  shame  to  the  sun's  bright  eye. 
To  the  light  clouds  of  mockery ! 

—  "Even  these  poor  eight  of  mine  would 

stem"  — 
Half  to  himself,  and  half  to  them 
He  spake  —  "would  stem,  or  quell,  a  force 
Ten  times  their  number,  man  and  horse: 
This  by  their  own  unaided  might. 
Without  their  father  in  their  sight. 
Without  the  Cause  for  which  they  fight; 
A  Cause,  which  on  a  needful  day 
Would  breed  us  thousands  brave  as  they." 

—  So  speaking,  he  his  reverend  head 
Raised  towards  that  Imagery  once  more: 
But  the  familiar  prospect  shed 
Despondency  unfelt  before: 

A  shock  of  intimations  vain. 
Dismay,  and  superstitious  pain, 
Fell  on  him,  with  the  sudden  thought 
Of  her  by  whom  the  work  was  wrought:  — 
Oh  wherefore  was  her  countenance  bright 
With  love  divine  and  gentle  light? 
She  would  not,  could  not,  disobey, 
But  her  Faith  leaned  another  way. 

Ill  tears  she  wept;  I  saw  them  fall,  /   ^'-^  JJI^qX  ..yji 
I  overheard  her  as  she  spake  njo  .  u^ 

[  123  ]  ^  rrunt^ 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Sad  words  to  that  mute  Animal, 

Thc.Wlntc  Doc,  in  the  hawthorn  brake; 

She  stccj)cd,  but  not  for  Jesu's  sake. 

This  Cross  in  tears:  by  her,  and  One 

Un worthier  far  we  are  undone  — 

Her  recreant  Brother  —  he  prevailed 

Over  that  tender  Spirit  —  assailed 

Too  oft,  alas!  byJicr  whose  head  -TvuvC^lM. 

In  the  cold  grave  hath  long  been  laid: 

She  first,  in  reason's  dawn  beguiled 

Her  docile,  unsuspecting  Child: 

Far  back  —  far  back  my  mind  must  go 

To  reach  the  well-spring  of  this  woe! 

While  thus  he  brooded,  music  sweet 
Of  border  tunes  was  played  to  cheer 
The  footsteps  of  a  quick  retreat; 
But  Norton  lingered  in  the  rear, 
Stuffgvvith  MiacD_  thoughts;  and  ere  the  last 
From  his  distracted  brain  was  cast. 
Before  his  P'ather,  Francis  stood. 
And  spake  in  firm  and  earnest  mood. 
"Though  here  I  bend  a  suppliant  knee 

^  In  reverence,  and  unarmed,  I  bear 

In  your  indignant  thoughts  my  share; 

^  Am  gric^'ed  this  l)ackward  march  to  see 

(9\  So  careless  and  disorderly. 

f  124  1 


}/s^^^ 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

I  scorn  your  Chiefs  —  men  who  would  lead, 

And  yet  want  courage  at  their  need: 

Then  look  at  them  with  open  eyes! 

Deserve  they  further  sacrifice?  — 

If  —  when  they  shrink,  nor  dare  oppose 

In  open  field  their  gathering  foes, 

(And  fast,  from  this  decisive  day, 

Yon  nuiltitude  must  melt  away;) 

If  now  I  ask  a  grace  not  claimed 

While  ground  was  left  for  hope;  unblamed 

Be  an  endeavour  that  can  do 

No  injury  to  them  or  you. 

My  Father!  I  would  help  to  find 

A  place  of  shelter,  till  the  rage 

Of  cruel  men  do  like  the  wind      ^      f 

Exhaust  itself  and  sink  to  rest; 

Be  Brother  now  to  Brother  joined! 

Admit  me  in  the  equipage 

Of  your  misfortunes,  that  at  least. 

Whatever  fate  remain  behind, 

I  may  bear  witness  in  my  breast 

To  your  nobility  of  mind!" 

"Thou  Enemy,  my  bane  and  blight! 
Oh !  bold  to  fight  the  Coward's  fight 
Against  all  good"  —  but  why  declare,    \m  "' 
At  length,  the  issue  of  a  prayer 
[  125  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Which  love  had  prompted,  yielding  scope 
Too  free  to  one  bright  moment's  hope? 
Suffice  it  that  the  Son,  who  strove 
With  fruitless  effort  to  allay 
That  passion,  prudently  gave  way; 
Nor  did  he  turn  aside  to  prove 
His  Brothers'  wisdom  or  their  love  — 
But  calmly  from  the  spot  withdrew; 
His  best  endeavours  to  renew, 
Should  e'er  a  kindlier  time  ensue. 


[  126  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 


CANTO  FOURTH 
'T  IS  night :  in  silence  looking  down, 
The  Moon,,  from  cloudless  ether,__sees_    /j^^Jg^/l^ 
A  Camp,  and  a  beleaguered  Town,  '  /     ^  iZZ. 

And  Castle,  like  a  stately  crown  /^  j 

On  the  steep  rocks  of  winding  Tees;  — 
And  southward  far,  with  moor  between. 
Hill-top,  and  flood,  and  forest  green, 
The  bright  Moon  sees  that  valley  small 
Where  Rylstone's  old  sequestered  Hall 
A  venerable  image  yields 
Of  quiet  to  the  neighbouring  fields; 
While  from  one  pillared  chimney  breathes 
The  smoke,  and  mounts  in  silver  wreaths. 
—  The  courts  are  hushed ;  —  for  timely  sleep 
The  greyhounds  to  their  kennel  creep; 
The  peacock  in  the  broad  ash  tree 
Aloft  is  roosted  for  the  night. 

He  who  in  proud  posterity  |        fi^tfj^ 

Of  colours  manifold  and  bright  C 

Walked  round,  affronting  the  daylight;  ) 
And  higher  still,  above  the  bower 
Where  he  is  perched,  from  yon  lone  Tower 
The  hall-clock  in  the  clear  moonshine 
With  glittering  finger  points  at  nine. 
'f  127  ] 


THE  WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Ah!  who  could  think  that  sadness  here 
Hath  any  ^wav?  or  pain,  or  fear? 
A  soft  and  lulHng  sound  is  heard 
Of  streams  inaudible  by  day; 
The  garden  pool's  dark  surface,  stirred 
By  the  night  insects  in  their  play. 
Breaks  into  dimples  smalKand  bright; 
A  thousand,  thousand  rings\f  light 
That  shape  themselves  and  disappear 
Almost  as  soon  as  seen:  -(-  and  lo)   ^-*^ 
Not  distant  far,  the  milk-Vfe4tt5T)oe  — 
The  same  who  quietly  was  feeding 
On  the  green  herb,  and  nothing  heeding, 
\Yhon  Francis,  uttering  to  the  INIaid 
His  last  words  in  the  yew-tree  shade, 
Involved  whate'er  by  love  was  brought 
Out  of  his  heart,  or  crossed  his  thought, 
Or  chance  presented  to  his  eye, 
In  one  sad  sweep  of  destiny  — 
The  same  fair  Creature,  who  hath  found 
Her  way  into  forbidden  ground; 
Where  now  —  within  this  spacious  plot 
For  pleasure  made,  a  goodly  spot, 
Willi  lawns  and  beds  of  (lowers,  and  shades 
Of  Irellis-work  in  long  arcades, 
And  cirque  and  (Tcsccnt  framed  by  wall 
[   128  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Of  close-clipt  foliage  green  and  tall, 
Converging  walks,  and  fountains  gay. 
And  terraces  in  trim  array  — 
Beneath  yon  cypress  spiring  high, 
With  pine  and  cedar  spreading  wide 
Their  darksome  boughs  on  either  side, 
In  open  moonlight  doth  she  lie; 
Happy  as  others  of  her  kind. 
That,  far  from  human  neighbourhood. 
Range  unrestricted  as  the  wind. 
Through  park,  or  chase,  or  savage  woodo 

But<see)the  consecrated  Maid       fCA^T  A^^mj^^s 
EmergtlTg  from  a  cedar  shade  ^ 

To  open  moonshine,  where  the  Doe 
Beneath  the  cypress-spire  is  laid; 
Like  a  patch  of  April  snow  —        /O  cKy\.,e<J^Lc%_ 
Upon  a  bed  of  herbage  green. 
Lingering  in  a  woody  glade 
Or  behind  a  rocky  screen  — 
Lonely  relic!  which,  if  seen 
By  the  shepherd,  is  passed  by 
With  an  inattentive  eye. 
Nor  more  regard  doth  She  bestow 
Upon  the  uncomplaining  Doe 
Now  couched  at  ease,  though  oft  this  day 
Not  unperplexed  nor  free  from  pain, 
f  129  1 


.&^ 


c^ 


THE  WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

When  she  had  tried,  and  tried  in  vain, 
Api)roaching  in  her  gentle  way. 
To  win  some  look  of  love,  or  gain 
Encouragement  to  sport  or  play  — 
Attempts  which  still  the  heart-sick  Maid 
Rejected,  or  with  slight  repaid. 

Yet  Emily  is  soothed;  -/the  breeze 
Came  fraught  with  kindly  sympathies.  ^ 
As  she  approached  yon  rustic  Shed 
Hung  with  late-flowering  woodbine,  spread 
Along  the  walls  and  overhead, 

fThe  fragrance  of  the  breathing  flowers 
Revived  a  memory  of  those  hours 
When  here,  in  this  remote  alcove, 
(Wliile  from  the  pendent  woodbine  came 
Like  odours,  sweet  as  if  the  same) 
A  fondly-anxious  INIother  strove 
To  teach  her  salutary  fears 
And  mysteries  above  her  years. 
Yes,  she  is  soothed:  an  Image  faint, 
And  yet  not  faint  —  a  presence  bright 
Returns  to  her  —  that  blessed  Saint 
Who  with  mild  looks  and  language  mild 
Instructed  here  her  darling  Child, 
\\'!iil<>  yd  a  j)rattlor  on  the  knee, 
T(j  worship  in  simplicity 
I    I'M)  1 


THE  WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

The  invisible  God,  and  take  for  guide 

The  faith  reformed  and  purified. 

'T  is  flown  —  the  Vision,  and  the  sense 

Of  that  beguiling  influence, 
"  But  oh !  thou  Angel  from  above, 

Mute  Spirit  of  maternal  love. 

That  stood'st  before  my  eyes,  more  clear 

Than  ghosts  are  fabled  to  appear 

Sent  upon  embassies  of  fear; 

As  thou  thy  presence  hast  to  me 

Vouchsafed,  in  radiant  ministry 

Descend  on  Francis;  nor  forbear 

To  greet  him  with  a  voice,  and  say;  — 

*If  hope  be  a  rejected  stay, 

'Do  thou,  my  Christian  Son,  beware 

*0f  that  most  lamentable  snare, 

'  The  _sel£;reliaii£e  of  despair ! ' " 

Then  from  within  the  embowered  retreat 

Where  she  had  found  a  grateful  seat  ,r,/^ 

1    pO^ 

Perturbed  she  issues.    She  will  go!  IT. 

Herself  will  follow  to  the  war, 

And  clasp  her  Father's  knees;  —  ah,  no! 

She  meets  the  insuperable  bar. 

The  injunction  by  her  Brother  laid; 

His  parting  charge  —  but  ill  obeyed  — 

That  interdicted  all  debate, 

\  131  1 


(^^^ 


THE  WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

All  prayer  for  this  cause  or  for  that; 
All  efforts  that  would  turn  aside 
The  headstrong  current  of  their  fate: 
Her  duty  is  to  stand  and  wait; 
In  resignation  to  abide 
The  shock,  and  finally  secure 
O'er  pain  and  grief  a  triumph  pure. 
—  She  feels  it,  and  her  pangs  are  checked. 
But  now,  as  silently  she  paced 
The  turf,  and  thought  by  thought  was  chasedi, 
Came  One  who,  with  sedate  respect, 
Approached,  and,  greeting  her,  thus  spake: 
"An  old  man's  privilege  I  take: 
Dark  is  the  time  —  a  woeful  day! 
^^         Dear  daughter  of  affliction,  say 

How  can  I  serve  you?  j)oint  the  way." 

"Rights  have  you,  and  may  well  be  bold; 
You  with  my  Father  have  grown  old 
In  friendship  —  strive  —  for  his  sake  go  — 
Turn  from  us  all  the  coming  woe: 
This  would  I  beg;  but  on  my  mind 
A  passive  stillness  is  enjoined. 
On  you,  if  room  for  mortal  aid 
Be  left,  is  no  restriction  laid; 
You  not  forbidden  to  recline 
With  hope  upon  the  Will  divine." 
f  132  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

"Hope,"  said  the  old  Man,  "must  abide 
With  all  of  us,  whate'er  betide. 
In  Craven's  Wilds  is  many  a  den, 
To  shelter  persecuted  men: 
Far  under  ground  is  many  a  cave, 
Where  they  might  lie  as  in  the  grave. 
Until  this  storm  hath  ceased  to  rave: 
Or  let  them  cross  the  River  Tweed, 
And  be  at  once  from  peril  freed!" 

"Ah  tempt  me  not!"  she  faintly  sighed; 
'I  will  not  counsel  nor  exhort. 
With  my  condition  satisfied; 
But  you,  at  least,  may  make  report 
Of  what  befalls;  —  be  this  your  task  — 
This  may  be  done;  —  't  is  all  I  ask!" 

She  spake  —  and  from  the  Lady's  sight 
The  Sire,  unconscious  of  his  age. 
Departed  promptly  as  a  Page 
Bound  on  some  errand  of  delight. 
—  The  noble  Francis  —  wise  as  brave, 
Thought  he,  may  want  not  skill  to  save. 
With  hopes  in  tenderness  concealed, 
Unarmed  he  followed  to  the  field; 
Him  will  I  seek:  the  insurgent  Powers 
Are  now  besieging  Barnard's  Towers,  — 
'Grant  that  the  Moon  which  shines  this  night 
\  133  1 


}    ^' 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  R^TSTONE 

May  j^uide  them  in  a  prudent  flight!" 

But  quick  the  turns  of  chance  and  change. 
And  knowledge  has  a  narrow  range; 
Whence  idle  fears,  and  needless  pain, 
And  wishes  blind,  and  efforts  vain.  —  i 

The  Moon  may  shine,  but  cannot  be   ')rijlA}i^^     , 
Their  guide  in  flight  —  already  she      K  Jjzv^i  ■ 
\j    Hath  witnessed  their  captivity.         ^         cp^  \, 
She  saw  the  desperate  assault  ,j,  f\jjr 

Upon  that  hostile  castle  made;  —      ir 
But  dark  and  dismal  is  the  vault 
Where  Norton  and  his  sons  are  laid! 
Disastrous  issue !  —  he  had  said, 
"This  night  yon  faithless  Towers  must  yield, 
Or  we  for  ever  quit  the  field. 

—  Neville  is  utterly  dismayed, 
For  promise  fails  of  Howard's  aid; 
And  Dacre  to  our  call  replies 
That  he  is  unprepared  to  rise. 
My  heart  is  sick;  —  this  weary  pause 
Must  needs  be  fatal  to  our  Cause. 
The  breach  is  open  —  on  the  wall, 
This  night,  the  Banner  shall  be  planted!" 

—  'T  was  done:  his  Sons  were  with  him  —  all; 
They  belt  him  round  with  hearts  undaunted 
And  others  follow ;  —  Sire  and  Son 

I   134  1 


(L^ 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Leap  down  into  the  court;  —  '"T  is  won"  — 
They  shout  aloud  —  but  Heaven  decreed 
That  with  their  joyful  shout  should  close 
The  triumph  of  a  desperate  deed 
Which  struck  with  terror  friends  and  foes! 
The  friend  shrinks  back  —  the  foe  recoils 
From  Norton  and  his  filial  band; 
But  they,  now  caught  within  the  toils. 
Against  a  thousand  cannot  stand;  — 
The  foe  from  numbers  courage  drew. 
And  overpowered  that  gallant  few. 
'A  rescue  for  the  Standard!"  cried 
The  Father  from  within  the  walls; 
But,  see,  the  sacred  Standard  falls !  — 
Confusion  through  the  Camp  spread  wide : 
Some  fled;  and  some  their  fears  detained: 
But  ere  the  Moon  had  sunk  to  rest  "^    f       'a  a 
In  her  pale  chambers  of  the  west,    j       ,  ^ 

Of  that  rash  levy  nought  remained.         V  -  j- 


135 


THE   ^YHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

CANTO  FIFTH 

High  on  a  point  of  rugged  ground 
Among  the  wastes  of  Ry  Is  tone  Fell 
Above  the  loftiest  ridge  or  mound 
Where  foresters  or  shepherds  dwell, 
An  edifice  of  warlike  frame 
Stands  single  —  Norton  Tower  ~^  its  name  — 
It  fronts  all  quarters,  and  looks  round 
O'er  path  and  road,  and  plain  and  dell, 
Dark  moor,  and  gleam  of  pool  and  stream, 
Upon  a  prosj>ect  without  bound. 

The  summit  of  this  bold  ascent  — 
Though  bleak  and  bare,  and  seldom  free 
As  Pendle-hill  or  Pennygent 
From  wind,  or  frost,  or  vapours  wet  — 
Had  often  heard  the  sound  of  glee 
When  there  the  youthful  Nortons  met. 
To  practise  games  and  archery : 
How  (proV  and  happy  they !  the,.Gjxiwd 
Of  Lookel^s^^^orHtow-plgased  andl  proucu! 
And  from  the  scorching  noon-tiofe-sim, 
From  showers,  or  when  the  prize  was  won, 
They  to  the  Tower  withdrew,  and  there 
Would  mirth  run  round,  with  generous  fare; 
And  the  stern  old  Lord  of  Rylstone-hall 
f  136  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Was  happiest,  proudest,  of  them  all! 

But  now,  his  Child,  with  anguish  pale. 
Upon  the  height  walks  to  and  fro; 
'T  is  well  that  she  hath  heard  the  tale. 
Received  the  bitterness  of  woe: 
For  she  had  hoped,  had  hoped  and  feared. 
Such  rights  did  feeble  nature  claim; 
And  oft  her  steps  had  hither  steered. 
Though  not  unconscious  of  seK-blame; 
For  she  her  brother's  charge  revered, 
His  farewell  words;  and  by  the  same. 
Yea  by  her  brother's  very  name. 
Had,  in  her  solitude,  been  cheered. 

Beside  the  lonely  watch-tower  stood 
That  grey-haired  Man  of  gentle  blood, 
Who  with  her  Father  had  grown  old 
In  friendship ;  rival  hunters  they. 
And  fellow  warriors  in  their  day; 
To  Rylstone  he  the  tidings  brought; 
Then  on  this  height  the  Maid  had  sought. 
And,  gently  as  he  could,  had  told 
The  end  of  that  dire  Tragedy, 
WTiich  it  had  been  his  lot  to  see.  \     ^^' 

To  him  the  Lady  turned;  "You  said   J'    oc^ 
That  Francis  lives,  he  is  not  dead?"  A^ 

'Your  noble  brother  hath  been  spared; 
f  137  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

To  take  his  life  they  have  not  dared; 
On  him  and  on  his  high  endeavour 
The  Hght  of  j)raise  shall  shine  for  ever! 
Nor  did  he  (such  Heaven's  will)  in  vain 
His  solitary  course  maintain; 
Not  vainly  struggled  in  the  might 
Of  duty,  seeing  with  clear  sight; 
He  was  their  comfort  to  the  last, 
Their  joy  till  every  pang  was  past. 

"  I  witnessed  when  to  York  they  came  — 
What,  Lady,  if  their  feet  were  tied; 
They  might  deserve  a  good  Man's  blame; 
But  marks  of  infamy  and  shame  — 
These  were  their  triumph,  these  their  pride, 
Nor  wanted  'mid  the  pressing  crowd 
Deep  feeling,  that  found  utterance  loud, 
*Lo,  Francis  comes,'  there  were  who  cried, 
'A  Prisoner  once,  but  now  set  free! 
'T  is  well,  for  he  the  worst  defied 
Through  force  of  natural  piety; 
He  rose  not  in  this  quarrel;  he. 
For  concord's  sake  and  England's  good, 
Suit  to  his  Brothers  often  made 
With  tears,  and  of  his  Father  prayed  — 
And  when  he  had  in  vain  withstood 
Their  purpose  —  then  did  he  divide, 
f  138  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

He  parted  from  them ;  but  at  their  side 
Now  walks  in  unanimity. 
Then  peace  to  cruelty  and  scorn, 
While  to  the  prison  they  are  borne, 
Peace,  peace  to  all  indignity ! ' 

"  And  so  in  Prison  were  they  laid  — 
Oh  hear  me,  hear  me,  gentle  Maid, 
For  I  am  come  with  power  to  bless. 
By  scattering  gleams,  through  your  distress. 
Of  a  redeeming  happiness. 
Me  did  a  reverent  pity  move 
And  privilege  of  ancient  love; 
And,  in  your  service,  making  bold. 
Entrance  I  gained  to  that  stronghold. 

"Your  Father  gave  me  cordial  greeting; 
But  to  his  purposes,  that  burned 
Within  him,  instantly  returned: 
He  was  commanding  and  entreating. 
And  said  —  '  We  need  not  stop,  my  Son ! 
Thoughts  press,  and  time  is  hurrying  on'  — 
And  so  to  Francis  he  renewed 
^  His  words,  more  calmly  thus  pursued. 

Might  this  our  enterprise  have  sped. 
Change  wide  and  deep  the  Land  had  seen, 
A  renovation  from  the  dead, 
A  spring-tide  of  immortal  green : 
f  139  1 


THE  WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

The  darksome  altars  would  have  blazed 
-Q^  -^  Like  stars  wlien  clouds  are  rolled  away; 

Salvation  to  all  eyes  that  gazed, 
Once  more  the  Rood  had  been  upraised 
To  spread  its  arms,  and  stand  for  aye. 
Then,  then  —  had  I  survived  to  see 
New  life  in  Bolton  Priory; 
The  voice  restored,  the  eye  of  Truth 
Re-opened  that  inspired  my  youth; 
To  see  her  in  her  pomp  arrayed  — 
This  Banner  (for  such  vow  I  made) 
Should  on  the  consecrated  breast 
Of  that  same  Temple  have  found  rest: 
I  would  myself  have  hung  it  high, 
Fit  offering  of  glad  victorj^ ! 

"  A  shadow  of  such  thought  remains 
To  cheer  this  sad  and  pensive  time; 
A  solemn  fancy  yet  sustains 
One  feeble  Being  —  bids  me  climb 
Even  to  the  last  —  one  effort  more 
To  attest  my  Faith,  if  not  restore. 

"  '  Hear  then,'  said  he,  'while  I  impart, 
My  Son,  the  last  wish  of  my  heart. 
(esQy"       ^''         The  Banner  strive  thou  to  regain; 
\T  And,  if  the  endeavour  prove  not  vain, 

Bear  it  —  to  whom  if  not  to  thee 
f  140  1 


.r  S' 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

Shcall  I  this  lonely  thought  consign?  — 
Bear  it  to  Bolton  Priory, 
And  lay  it  on  Saint  Mary's  shrine; 
To  wither  in  the  sun  and  breeze 
'Mid  those  decaying  sanctities. 
There  let  at  least  the  gift  be  laid, 
The  testimony  there  displaj'ed; 
I  Bold  proof  that  with  no  selfish  aim, 
I    But  for  lost  Faith  and  Christ's  dear  name, 
\  I  helmeted  a  brow  though  white, 
/    And  took  a  place  in  all  men's  sight; 
Yea  offered  up  this  noble  Brood, 
This  fair  unrivalled  Brotherhood, 
And  turned  away  from  thee,  my  Son ! 
And  left  —  but  be  the  rest  unsaid. 
The  name  untouched,  the  tear  unshed ;  — 
My  wish  is  known,  and  I  have  done: 
Now  promise,  grant  this  one  request. 
This  dying  prayer,  and  be  thou  blest ! ' 

"  Then  Francis  answered  —  '  Trust  thy  Son, 
For,  with  God's  will,  it  shall  be  done ! '  — 
"  The  pledge  obtained,  the  solemn  word 
Thus  scarcely  given,  a  noise  was  heard. 
And  Officers  appeared  in  state 
To  lead  the  prisoners  to  their  fate. 
They  rose,  oh !  wherefore  should  I  fear 
f  Ul  1 


I 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

To  tell,  or,  Lady,  you  to  hear? 
They  rose  —  embraces  none  were  given  — 
They  stood  like  trees  when  earth  and  heaven 
Are  calm;  they  knew  each  other's  worth. 
And  reverently  the  Band  went  forth. 
They  met,  when  they  had  reached  the  door, 
One  with  profane  and  harsh  intent 
Placed  there  —  that  he  might  go  before 
And,  with  that  rueful  Banner  borne 
Aloft  in  sign  of  taunting  scorn. 
Conduct  them  to  their  punishment : 
So  cruel  Sussex,  unrestrained 
By  human  feeling,  had  ordained. 
The  unhappy  Banner  Francis  saw. 
And,  with  a  look  of  calm  command 
Inspiring  universal  awe. 
He  took  it  from  the  soldier's  hand; 
And  all  the  people  that  stood  round 
Confirmed  the  deed  in  i)eace  profound. 
—  High  transport  did  the  Father  shed 
Upon  his  Son  —  and  they  were  led. 
Led  on,  and  yielded  up  their  breath; 
Together  died,  a  happy  death!  — 
But  Francis,  soon  as  he  had  braved 
That  insult,  and  the  Banner  saved. 
Athwart  the  unresisting  tide 
f  142  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Of  the  spectators  occupied 

In  admiration  or  dismay, 

Bore  instantly  his  Charge  away." 

These  things,  which  thus  had  in  the  sight 
And  hearing  passed  of  Him  who  stood 
With  Emily,  on  the  Watch-tower  height. 
In  Rylstone's  woeful  neighbourhood, 
He  told;  and  oftentimes  with  voice 
Of  power  to  comfort  or  rejoice; 
For  deepest  sorrows  that  aspire. 
Go  high,  no  transport  ever  higher. 

"Yes  —  God  is  rich  in  mercy,"  said 
The  old  Man  to  the  silent  Maid, 

"Yet,  Lady!  shines,  through  this  black  night, 
One  star  of  aspect  heavenly  bright; 
Your  Brother  lives  —  he  lives  —  is  come 
Perhaps  already  to  his  home; 
Then  let  us  leave  this  dreary  place." 
She  yielded,  and  with  gentle  pace. 
Though  without  one  uplifted  look, 
To  Rylstone-hall  her  way  she  took. 


US 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

CANTO  SIXTH 

Why  comes  not  Francis?  —  From  the  doleful  City 
He  fled,  —  and,  in  his  flight,  could  hear 
The  death-sounds  of  the  Minster-bell : 
That  sullen  stroke  pronounced  farewell 
To  Marmaduke,  cut  off  from  pity! 
To  Ambrose  that !  and  then  a  knell 
For  him,  the  sweet  half-open  Flower! 
For  all  —  all  dying  in  one  hour!    . 
<^       —  Why  comes  not  Francis?  Thoughts  of  love 
Vvj5<- /,       Should  bear  him  to  his  Sister  dear 
C^^  J^       WithJlisJcet  motion  oJo^^e ;  /  vM^^ 
\fW  { Yea,  like  a  heavenly  messenger 

^  (  Of  speediest  wing,  should  he  appear. 

(T^ — ^^  Why  comes  he  not?  —  for  westward  fast 
Along  the  plain  of  York  he  past ; 
Reckless  of  what  impels  or  leads. 
Unchecked  he  hurries  on ;  —  nor  heeds 
The  sorrow,  through  the  Villages, 
Spread  by  triumphant  cruelties 
Of  vengeful  military  force, 
And  i)unishment  without  remorse. 
He  marked  not,  heard  not,  as  he  fled, 
All  but  the  suffering  heart  was  dead 
For  him  abandoned  to  l)laiik  awe, 
f  144  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

To  vacancy,  and  horror  strong: 

And  the  first  object  which  he  saw, 

With  conscious  sight,  as  he  swept  along  — 

It  was  the  Banner  in  his  hand ! 

He  felt  —  and  made  a  sudden  stand. 

He  looked  about  like  one  betrayed: 
What  hath  he  done?  what  promise  made? 
Oh  weak,  weak  moment!  to  what  end 
Can  such  a  vain  oblation  tend. 
And  he  the  Bearer?  —  Can  he  go 
Carrying  this  instrument  of  woe. 
And  find,  find  anywhere,  a  right 
To  excuse  him  in  his  Country's  sight? 
No;  will  not  all  men  deem  the  change 
A  downward  course,  perverse  and  strange? 
Here  is  it;  —  but  how?  when?  must  she, 
The  unoffending  Emily, 
Again  this  piteous  object  see? 

Such  conflict  long  did  he  maintain,     o  \JJi/\~  'octuUM. 
Nor  liberty  nor  rest  could  gain: 
His  own  life  into  danger  brought 
By  this  sad  burden  —  even  that  thought, 
.Exciting  self-suspicion  strong 
Swayed  the  brave  man  to  his  wrong. 
And  how  —  unless  it  were  the  sense 
Of  all-disposing  Providence, 
[  145  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

Its  will  unquestionably  shown  — 
How  has  the  Banner  clung  so  fast 
To  a  palsied,  and  unconscious  hand; 
Clung  to  the  hand  to  which  it  passed 
Without  impediment?  And  why, 
But  that  Heaven's  purpose  might  be  known, 
Doth  now  no  hindrance  meet  his  eye, 
No  intervention,  to  withstand 
Fulfilment  of  a  Father's  prayer 
Breathed  to  a  Son  forgiven,  and  blest 
When  all  resentments  were  at  rest. 
And  life  in  death  laid  the  heart  bare?  — 
Then,  like  a  spectre  sweeping  by. 
Rushed  through  his  mind  the  prophecy 
Of  utter  desolation  made 
To  Emily  in  the  yew-tree  shade: 
He  sighed,  submitting  will  and  power 
To  the  stern  embrace  of  that  grasping  hour. 
I  "No  choice  is  left,  the  deed  is  mine  — 
k     Dead  are  they,  dead !  —  and  I  will  go, 
(      And,  for  their  sakes,  come  weal  or  woe, 
^Will  lay  the  Relic  on  the  shrine." 
So  forward  with  a  steady  will 
He  went,  and  traversed  plain  anil  hill; 
And  uj)  the  vale  of  Wharf  his  way 
Pursued;  —  and,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
[  110  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Attained  a  summit  whence  his  eyes 

Could  see  the  Tower  of  Bolton  rise. 

There  Francis  for  a  moment's  space 

Made  halt  —  but  hark !  a  noise  behind 

Of  horsemen  at  an  eager  pace! 

He  heard,  and  with  misgiving  mind. 

—  'T  is  Sir  George  Bowes  who  leads  the  Band: 

They  come,  by  cruel  Sussex  sent; 

Who,  when  the  Nortons  from_the  hand 

Of  death  had  drun^their  punishment,      <^-&^ 

Bethought  him,  angry  and  ashamed, 

How  Francis,  with  the  Banner  claimed 

As  his  own  charge,  had  disappeared. 

By  all  the  standers-by  revered. 

His  whole  bold  carriage  (which  had  quelled 

Thus  far  the  Opposer,  and  repelled 

All  censure,  enterprise  so  bright 

That  even  bad  men  had  vainly  striven 

Against  that  overcoming  light) 

Was  then  reviewed,  and  prompt  word  given 

That  to  what  place  soever  fled 

He  should  be  seized,  alive  or  dead. 

The  troop  of  horse  have  gained  the  height 
Where  Francis  stood  in  open  sight. 
They  hem  him  round  —  "  Behold  the  proof," 
They  cried,  "the  Ensim  in  his  hand! 
147/1 


THE  WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

He  did  not  arm,  he  walked  aloof! 
For  why?  —  to  save  his  Father's  land;  — 
Worse  Traitor  of  them  all  is  he, 
A  Traitor  dark  and  cowardly!" 
"I  am  no  Traitor,"  Francis  said, 
"Though  this  unhappy  freight  I  bear; 
And  must  not  part  with.   But  beware;  — 
Err  not  by  hasty  zeal  misled, 
Nor  do  a  suffering  Spirit  wrong. 
Whose  self-reproaches  are  too  strong!" 
At  this  he  from  the  beaten  road 
Retreated  towards  a  brake  of  thorn. 
That  like  a  place  of  vantage  showed; 
And  there  stood  bravely,  though  forlorn. 
In  self-defence  with  warlike  brow 
He  stood,  —  nor  weaponless  was  now; 
He  from  a  Soldier's  hand  had  snatched 
A  spear,  —  and,  so  protected,  watched 
The  Assailants,  turning  round  and  round; 
But  from  behind  with  treacherous  wound 
A  Spearman  brought  him  to  the  ground. 
The  guardian  lance,  as  Francis  fell, 
Dropped  from  him;  but  his  other  hand 
The  Banner  clenched;  till,  from  out  the  Band, 
One,  the  most  eager  for  the  prize. 
Rushed  in ;  and  -7-"while,  O  grief  to  tell !       ^\ 

/      X  ^    — . .     Y 


¥^S 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

A  glimmering  sense  still  left,  with  eyes 

Unclosed  the  noble  Francis  lay  — 

Seized  it,  as  hunters  seize  their  prey; 

But  not  before  jthe  warm  life-blood 

Had  tinged  more  deeply,  as  it  flowed. 

The  wounds  the  broidered  Banner  showed,^ 

Thy  fatal  work,  O  Maiden,  innocent  as  good! 

Proudly  the  Horsemen  bore  away 
The  Standard;  and  where  Francis  lay  *■ 

There  was  he  left  alone,  unwept,  ^(^V       0 

And  for  two  days  unnoticed  slept.  ^ 

For  at  that  time  bewildering  fear 
Possessed  the  country,  far  and  near; 
But,  on  the  third  day, .passing  by 
One  of  the  Norton  Tenantry 
Espied  the  uncovered  Corse;  the  Man 
Shrunk  as  he  recognised  the  face. 
And  to  the  nearest  homesteads  ran 
And  called  the  people  to  the  place. 
—  How  desolate  is  Rylstone-hall ! 
This  was  the  instant  thought  of  all; 
And  if  the  lonely  Lady  there 
-  Should  be;  to  her  they  cannot  bear 
This  weight  of  anguish  and  despair. 
So,  when  upon  sad  thoughts  had  prest 
Thoughts  sadder  still,J^ey  deemed  it  best 
\  149  1 


THE  WHITE   DOE   OF  R\TLSTONE 

That,  if  the  Priest  should  yield  assent 
And  no  one  hinder  their  intent. 
Then,  they,  for  Christian  pity's  sake, 
In  holy  ground  a  grave  would  make; 
And  straightway  buried  he  should  be 
In  the  Churchyard  of  the  Priory. 

Apart,  some  little  space,  was  made 
The  grave  where  Francis  must  be  laid. 
In  no  confusion  or  neglect 
This  did  they,  —  but  in  pure  respect 
That  he  was  born  of  gentle  blood; 
And  that  there  was  no  neighbourhood 
Of  kindred  for  him  in  that  ground: 
So  to  the  Churchyard  they  are  bound, 
Bearing  the  body  on  a  bier; 
And  psalms  they  sing  —  a  holy  sound 
Tliat  hill  and  vale  with  sadness  hear. 

But  Emily  hath  raised  her  head, 
And  is  again  disquieted; 
She  must  behold !  —  so  many  gone, 
Where  is  the  solitary  One? 
And  forth  from  Rylstone-hall  stepped  she, — 
To  seek  her  Brother  forth  she  went. 
And  tremblingly  her  course  she  bent 
Toward  Bolton's  ruined  l*riory. 
She  comes,  and  in  the  vale  hath  heard 
[   loO  1 


THE   WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

The  funeral  dirge;  —  she  sees_the  knot    CO^-s(i 

Of  people,  sees  them  in  one  spot  — 

And  dartingjike  a  wounded  bird 

She  reached  the  grave,  and  with  her  breast 

Upon  the  ground  received  the  rest,  — 

The  consummation,  the  whole  ruth! 

And  sorrow  of  this  final  truth! 


[1511 


THE  WHITE   DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

CANTO  SEVENTH 

"Powers  there  are 
That  touch  each  other  to  the  quick  —  in  modes 
W hich  the  gross  world  no  sense  hath  to  perceive. 
No  soul  to  dream  of." 

Thou  Spirit,  whose  angelic  hand 
■U  Was  to  the  harp  a  strong  command. 

Called  the  submissive  strings  to  wake 

^  ftrJ  *  In  glory  for  this  Maiden's  sake, 

Say,  Spirit!  whither  hath  she  fled 

^"^  To  hide  her  poor  afflicted  head? 

What  mighty  forest  in  its  gloom 
Enfolds  her?  —  is  a  rifted  tomb 
Within  the  wilderness  her  seat? 
Some  island  which  the  wild  waves  beat  — 
Is  that  the  Sufferer's  last  retreat? 
Or  some  aspiring  rock,  that  shrouds 
Its  perilous  front  in  mists  and  clouds? 
High-climbing  rock,  low  sunless  dale. 
Sea,  desert,  what  do  these  avail? 
Oh  take  her  anguish  and  her  fears 
Into  a  deej)  recess  of  years! 

'T  is  done;  —  despoil  and  desolation  "^^ 
O'er  Rylstone's  fair  domain  have  blown; 
Pools,  terraces,  and  walks  are  sown 
With  weeds;  the  bowers  arc  overthrown, 
[   152  1 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE 

Or  have  given  way  to  slow  mutation, 
While,  in  their  ancient  habitation 
The  Norton  name  hath  been  unknown. 
The  lordly  Mansion  of  its  pride 
Is  stripped;  the  ravage  hath  spread  wide 
Through  park  and  field,  a  perishing 
That  mocks  the  gladness  of  the  Spring! 
And,  with  this  silent  gloom  agreeing. 
Appears  a  joyless  human  Being, 
Of  aspect  such  as  if  the  waste 
Were  under  her  dominion  placed. 
Upon  a  primrose  bank,  her  throne 
Of  quietness,  she  sits  alone; 
Among  the  ruins  of  a  wood, 
Erewhile  a  covert  bright  and  green. 
And  where  full  many  a  brav'c  tree  stood, 
That  used  to  spread  its  boughs,  and  ring 
With  the  sweet  bird's  carolling. 
Behold  her,  like  a  virgin  Queen, 
"Neglecting  in  imperial  state 
These  outward  images  of  fate, 
And  carrying  inward  a  serene 
And  perfect  sway,  through  many  a  thought 
Of  chance  and  change,  that  hath  been  brought 
To  the  subjection  of  a  holy. 
Though  stern  and  rigorous,  melancholy! 
\  153  1 


THE   WHITE  DOE   OF  RYLSTONE 

The  like  authority,  with  grace 

Of  awfulness,  is  in  her  face,  — 

There  hath  she  fixed  it;  yet  it  seems 

To  o'ershadow  by  no  native  right 

That  face,  which  cannot  lose  the  gleams,  -^ 

Lose  utterly  the  tender  gleams. 

Of  gentleness  and  meek  delight, 

And  loving-kindness  ever  bright: 

Such  is  her  sovereign  mien :  —  her  dress 

(A  vest  with  woollen  cincture  tied, 

A  hood  of  mountain-wool  undyed) 

Is  homely,  —  fashioned  to  express 

A  wandering  Pilgrim's  humbleness. 

And  she  haih  wandered,  long  and  far,         \\^ 
Beneath  the  light  of  sun  and  star;  \ 

Hath  roamed  in  trouble  and  in  grief,    "? 
Driven  forward  like _a^  withered  lcaj,_      5i>> 
Yea  like  a  ship  at  random  blown    !KP^  ^  > 
To  distant  places  and  unknown.  r\  qS-        \r 

But  now  she  dares  to  seek  a  haven  .0^ 

Among  her  native  wilds  of  Craven; 
Hath  seen  again  her  Father's  roof. 
And  put  her  fortitude  to  proof; 
The  mighty  sorrow  hath  been  borne. 
And  she  is  thoroughly  forlorn: 
Her  soul  doth  in  itself  stand  fast, 
[  154  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

Sustained  by  memory  of  the  past 

And  stren^h  of  Reason ;  held  above    QAA<ijf'OUyv,  -> 

The  infirmities  of  mortal  love;  -fUA_ 

Undaunted,  lofty,  calm,  and  stable, 

And  awfully  impenetrable. 

And  so  —  beneath  a  mouldered  tree, 
A  self-surviving  leafless  oak 
By  unregarded  age  from  stroke 
Of  ravage  saved  —  sate  Emily. 
There  did  she  rest,  with  head  reclined. 
Herself  most  jlike  a  stately  flower, 
(Such  have  I  seen)  whom  chance  of  birth 
Hath  separated  from  its  kind. 
To  live  and  die  in  a  shady  bower. 
Single  on  the  gladsome  earth.   \ 

When,  with  a  noise  like  distant  thunder, 
A  troop  of  deer  came  sweeping  by; 
And,  suddenly,  behold  a  wonder! 
For  One,  among  those  rushing  deer, 
A  single  One,  in  mid  career 

Hath  stopped,  and  fixed  her  large  full  eye      i       ;y^ 
Upon  the  Lady  Emily;  \J 

A  Doe  most  beautiful,  clear-white, 
-A  radiant  creature,  silver-bright! 

Thus  checked,  a  little  while  it  stayed; 
A  little  thoughtful  pause  it  made; 
[  155  ] 


^ 


r" 


^  0 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

And  then  advanced  with  stealth-hke  pace, 
Drew  softly  near  her,  and  more  near  — 
Looked  round  —  but  saw  no  cause  for  fear; 
So  to  her  feet  the  Creature  came, 
And  laid  its  head  upon  her  knee, 
And  looked  into  the  Lady's  face, 
A  look  of  pure  benignity, 
And  fond  unclouded  memory. 


lyv^     ^  It  is,  thought  Emily,  the  same, 

The  very  Doe  of  other  years !  — 
The  j)lcading  look  the  Lady  viewed, 
\      And,  by  her  gushing  thoughts  subdued, 
1^  yb*^          \    She  melted  into  tears  — 
-|     ^^       }  A  flood  of  tears,  that  flowed  apace, 
W^  ^_^  Uj)on  tlie  happy  Creature's  face. 

L  Oh,  moment  ever  blest!  O  Pair 

k      Beloved  of  Heaven,  Heaven's  chosen  care, 
jC^        \)      This  was  for  you  a  precious  greeting; 
fvAy^      ^  And  may  it  prove  a  fruitful  meeting ! 


k  V"  Joined  are  they,  and  the  sylvan  Doe 

\'^        r         ^^^  ^^^^  depart.'*  can  she  forego 
V^  ^  (j^f*  The  Lady,  once  her  playful  peer. 

And  now  her  sainted  Mistress  dear? 
And  will  not  Emily  receive 
This  lovely  chronicler  of  things 
Long  past,  delights  and  sorrowings? 
f  1.5G  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

Lone  Sufferer!  will  not  she  believe 

The  promise  in  that  speaking  face; 

And  welcome,  as  a  gift  of  grace, 

The  saddest  thought  the  Creature  brings?    , 

That  day,  the  first  of  a  re-union 
Which  was  to  teem  with  high  communion, 
That  day  of  balmy  April  weather, 
They  tarried  in  the  wood  together. 
And  when,  ere  fall  of  evening  dew, 
She  from  her  sylvan  haunt  withdrew, 
The  White  Doe  tracked  with  faithful  pace 
The  Lady  to  her  dwelling-place; 
That  nook  where,  on  paternal  ground, 
A  habitation  she  had  found. 
The  Master  of  whose  humble  board 
Once  owned  her  Father  for  his  Lord; 
A  hut,  by  tufted  trees  defended. 
Where  Rylstone  brook  with  Wharf  is  blended. 

W^hen  Emily  by  morning  light 
Went  forth,  the  Doe  stood  there  in  sight. 
She  shrunk :  —  with  one  frail  shock  of  pain 
Received  and  followed  by  a  prayer, 
She  saw  the  Creature  once  again; 
Shun  will  she  not,  she  feels,  will  bear;  — 
But,  wheresoever  she  looked  round, 
All  now  was  trouble-haunted  ground; 
[  157  ] 


/.VA 


y 


THE   WHITE   DOE    OF   RYLSTONE 

And  therefore  now  she  deems  it  good 
Once  more  this  restless  neighbourhood 
To  leave.  —  Unwooed,  yet  unforbidden, 
The  White  Doe  followed  up  the  vale, 
Up  to  another  cottage,  hidden 
In  the  deep  fork  of  Amerdale;-^ 
And  there  may  Emily  restore 
^         Herself,  in  spots  unseen  before. 

-  Why  tell  of  mossy  rock,  or  tree, 
V  ** '    '    \  By  lurking  Dernbrook's  pathless  side, 
Haunts  of  a  strengthening  amity ' 
That  calmed  her,  cheered,  and  fortified? 
For  she  hath  ventured  now  to  read 
Of  time,  and  place,  and  thought,  and  deed  — 
Endless  history  that  lies 
In  her  silent  Follower's  eyes; 
Who  with  a  power  like  human  reason 
Discerns  the  favourable  season. 
Skilled  to  approach  or  to  retire,  — 
From  looks  conceiving  her  desire; 
From  look,  deportment,  voice,  or  mien. 
That  vary  to  the  heart  within. 
If  she  too  passionately  wreathed 
Her  arms,  or  over-deeply  breathed. 
Walked  quick  or  slowly,  every  mood 
In  its  degree  was  understood; 
[  158  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

Then  well  may  tlieir  accord  be  true. 
And  kindliest  intercourse  ensue. 

—  Oh !  surely  't  was  a  gentle  rousing 
When  she  by  sudden  glimpse  espied 

The  White  Doe  on  the  mountain  browsing, 

Or  in  the  meadow  wandered  wide ! 

How  pleased,  when  down  the  Straggler  sank 

Beside  her,  on  some  sunny  bank ! 

How^  soothed,  when  in  thick  bower  enclosed. 

They,  like  a  nested  pair,  reposed! 

Fair  Vision !  when  it  crossed  the  Maid 

Within  som.e  rocky  cavern  laid. 

The  dark  cave's  portal  gliding  by. 

White  as  whitest  cloud  on  high 

Floating  through  the  azure  sky. 

—  What  now  is  left  for  pain  or  fear? 
That  Presence,  dearer  and  more  dear. 
While  they,  side  by  side,  were  straying. 
And  the  shepherd's  pipe  was  playing, 
Did  now  a  very  gladness  yield 

At  morning  to  the  dewy  field. 
And  with  a  deeper  peace  endued 
The  hour  of  moonlight  solitude. 

With  her  Companion,  in  such  frame 
Of  mind,  to  Rylstone  back  she  came; 
And,  ranging  through  the  wasted  groves, 
[  159  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

Received  the  memory  of  old  loves, 
Undisturbed  and  undistrest, 
Into  a  soul  ^Yhich  now  was  blest 
With  a  soft  spring-day  of  holy, 
Mild,  and  grateful,  melancholy: 
Not  sunless  gloom  or  unenlightened. 
But  by  tender  fancies  brightened. 

When  the  bells  of  Rylstone  played 
Their  sabbath  music  —  "  (0oU  m  npHc  "  !  26 
That  was  the  sound  thev^emed  to  speak; 
Inscriptive  legend  whicn  I ^een 
May  on  those  holy  bells  oe  seen, 
That  legend  and  her  Grandsire's  name; 
And  oftentimes  the  Lady  meek 
Had  in  her  childhood  read  the  same; 
Words  which  she  slighted  at  that  day; 
But  now,  when  such  sad  change  was  wrought, 
And  of  that  lonely  name  she  thought  — 
The  bells  of  Rylstone  seemed  to  say, 
While  slie  sate  listening  in  the  shade. 
With  vocal  music,  "(3oti  nd  apUc"  : 
And  all  the  hills  were  glad  to  bear 
Their  part  in  this  effectual  praj^er. 

Nor  lacked  she  Reason's  firmest  power; 
But  with  the  White  Doe  at  her  side 
Up  would  slic  cliiiib  lo  iXorloM  Tower, 
[   160  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

And  thence  look  round  her  far  and  wide. 

Her  fate  there  measuring;  —  all  is  stilled,  — 

The  weak  one  hath  subdued  her  heart; 

Behold  the  prophecy  fulfilled, 

Fulfilled,  and  she  sustains  her  part! 

But  here  her  Brother's  words  have  failed; 

Here  hath  a  milder  doom  prevailed; 

That  she,  of  him  and  all  bereft. 

Hath  yet  this  faithful  Partner  left; 

This  one  Associate,  that  disproves 

His  words,  remains  for  her,  and  loves. 

If  tears  are  shed,  they  do  not  fall 

For  loss  of  him  —  for  one,  or  all; 

Yet,  sometirnes^^siimetimes  doth  she  weep 

Moved  gently  in  her  soul's  soft  sleep; 

A  few  tears  down  her  cheek  descend 

For  this  her  last  and  living  Friend. 

Bless,  tender  Hearts,  their  mutual  lot. 
And  bless  for  both  this  savage  spot; 
Which  Emily  doth  sacred  hold 
For  reasons  dear  and  manifold  — 
Here  hath  she,  here  before  her  sight. 
Close  to  the  summit  of  this  height. 
The  grassy  rock -encircled  Pound  ^' 
In  which  the  Creature  first  was  found. 
So  beautiful  the  timid  Thrall 
f  161  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

(A  spotless  Youngling  white  as  foam) 
Her  youngest  Brother  brought  it  home; 
The  youngest,  then  a  lusty  boy, 
Bore  it,  or  led,  to  Rylstone-hall 
With  heart  brimful  of  pride  and  joy ! 

But  most  to  Bolton's  sacred  Pile, 
On  favouring  nights,  she  loved  to  go; 
There  ranged  through  cloister,  court,  and  aisle. 
Attended  by  the  soft-paced  Doe; 
Nor  feared  she  in  the  still  moonshine 
To  look  upon  Saint  Mary's  shrine; 
Nor  on  the  lonely  turf  that  showed 
Where  Francis  slept  in  his  last  abode. 
For  that  she  came;  there  oft  she  sate 
Forlorn,  but  not  disconsolate: 
And,  when  she  from  the  abyss  returned 
Of  thought,  she  neither  shrunk  nor  mourned; 
Was  happy  that  she  lived  to  greet 
Her  nuite  Companion  as  it  lay 
In  love  and  pity  at  her  feet; 
How  happy  in  its  turn  to  meet 
The  recognition!  the  mild  glance 
Beamed  from  that  graciodsl^untenance; 
Communication,  like  tji<t  ray  j 
Of  a  new  rnoyning.  to  the^TWrturc 
And  prospects  of  the  inferior  Creature! 
[  102  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   RYLSTONE 

A  mortal  Song  we  sing,  by  dower 
Encouraged  of  celestial  power; 
Power  which  the  viewless  Spirit  shed 
By  whom  we  were  first  visited; 
Whose  voice  we  heard,  whose  hand  and  wings 
Swept  like  a  breeze  the  conscious  strings, 
When,  left  in  solitude,  erewhile 
We  stood  before  this  ruined  Pile, 
And,  quitting  unsubstantial  dreams. 
Sang  in  this  Presence  kindred  themes; 
Distress  and  desolation  spread 
Through  human  hearts,  and  pleasure  dead,  — 
Dead  —  but  to  live  again  on  earth, 
A  second  and  yet  nobler  birth; 
Dire  overthrow,  and  yet  how  high 
The  re-ascent  in  sanctity! 
From  fair  to  fairer;  day  by  day 
A  more  divine  and  loftier  way! 
Even  such  this  blessed  Pilgrim  trod. 
By  sorrow  lifted  towards  her  God; 
Uplifted  to  the  purest  sky    /  \  ^  ^ 

Of  undisturbed  mortality,    j 
Her  own  thoughts  loved  she;  and  could  bend 
A  dear  look  to  her  lowly  Friend; 
There  stopped;  her^ thirst  was  satisfied 
With  what  this  innocent  spring  supplied : 
163  1 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   R\XSTONE 

Her  sanction  inwardly  she  bore, 
And  stood  apart  from  human  cares: 
But  to  the  world  returned  no  more. 
Although  with  no  unwilling  mind 
Help  did  she  give  at  need,  and  joined 
The  Wharfdale  peasants  in  their  prayers. 
At  length,  thus  faintly,  faintly  tied 
To  earth,  she  was  set  free,  and  died. 
Thy  soul,  exalted  Emily, 
Maid  of  the  blasted  family. 
Rose  to  the  God  from  whom  it  came ! 
—  In  Rylstone  Church  her  mortal  frame 
Was  buried  by  her  Mother's  side. 
I       Most  glorious  sunset!  and  a  ray 
\  Survives  —  the  twilight  of  this  day  — 
/  In  that  fair  Creature  whom  the  fields 
Support,  and  whom  the  forest  shields; 
Who,  having  filled  a  holy  place. 
Partakes,  in  her  degree.  Heaven's  grace; 
And  bears  a  memory  and  a  mind 
Raised  far  above  the  law  of  kind; 
Haunting  the  spots  with  lonely  cheer 
Wliich  her  dear  Mistress  once  held  dear: 
Loves  most  what  Emily  loved  most  — 
The  enclosure  of  this  churchyard  ground; 
Here  wanders  like  a  gliding  ghost, 
f  1641 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF   R\XSTONE 

And  every  sabbath  here  is  found; 

Comes  with  the  people  when  the  bells 

Are  heard  among  the  moorland  dells, 

Finds  entrance  through  yon  arch,  where  way 

Lies  open  on  the  sabbath-day; 

Here  walks  amid  the  mournful  waste 

Of  prostrate  altars,  shrines  defaced. 

And  floors  encumbered  with  rich  show 

Of  fret- work  imagery  laid  low; 

Paces  softly,  or  makes  halt. 

By  fractured  cell,  or  tomb,  or  vault; 

By  plate  of  monumental  brass 

Dim-gleaming  among  weeds  and  grass, 

And  sculptured  Forms  of  Warriors  brave: 

But  chiefly  by  that  single  grave. 

That  one  sequestered  hillock  green. 

The  pensive  visitant  is  seen. 

There  doth  the  gentle  Creature  lie 

With  those  adversities  unmoved; 

Calm  spectacle,  by  earth  and  sky 

In  their  benignity  approved!  ■-  \  '  tU 

And  aye,jiiethiiiks,_this  hoary  Pile,    J^Jy^^^^^lj^ 

Subdued  by  outrage  and  decay,  ]/ 

Looks  down  upon  her  with  a  src 

A  gracious  smile,  that  seems  to  saj 


>^ 


Looks  down  upon  her  with  a  smile,_  ^ 

~  ? 


"Thou,  thou  art  not  a  child  of  Time,         I     [k}l\ 
But  Daughter  of  the  Eternal  Prime!"     \ 


THE  FORCE  OF  PRAYER 

OR.  THE  FOUNDING  OF  BOLTON  PRIORY 
A  TRADITION 

1807     1815 

An  Appendage  to  the  "White  Doe."    My  friend,  Mr. 
Rogers    has  also  written  on  the  subject.    The  story  .pre- 
served in  Dr.  Whitaker-s  History  of  Craven  -  a  topographjea 
w  iter  of  first-rate  merit  in  all  that  concerns  the  past;  but 
Tuch  was  his  aversion  from  the  modern  spuxt,  as  sho.^  u. 
the  spread  of  manufactories  in  those  districts  of  which  he 
reats'  that  his  readers  are  left  entirely  ignorant  both  of  the 
progress  of  these  arts  and  their  real  bearmg  upon  the  comfort, 
V  rtuet  and  happiness  of  the  inhabitants.    Whde  wandermg 
on  foot  through  the  fertile  valleys  and  over  the  moorlands  o 
L  Apennine'that  divides  Yorkshire  ^-^  Lanca^^^- ^  "J^ 
to    be   delighted  with  observing  the  number  of  substantial 
cotta^^es  that  had  sprung  up  on  every  side,  each  havmg  ,ts 
little ;iot  of  fertile  ground  won  from  the  -rroundmg  waste^ 
'bright  and  warm  fire,  if  needed,  was  always  to  be  fcnind  m 
fhele^dwellings.    The  father  was  at  his  loom;  the  eh^- 
looked  healthy  and  happy.  Is  it  not  to  be  feared  tl-t   '     m 
crease  of  mechanic  power  has  done  away  w.th  many  of  the  e 
essings,  and  substituted  many  evils?     Alas!  if  these  evds 
,  ow,  how  are  they  to  be  checked,  and  where  is  the  remedy 
to  be  found?  Political  econon.y  will  not  supply  ,t;  that  ,s  cer- 
tain; we  must  look  to  something  deeper,  purer,  and  higher. 
"l^ljat  tfi  500^  for  a  bootlccfi  bene?" 
With  these  dark  words  begins  my  Tale; 
f  106  1 


"WITH  HOW  SAD  STEPS,  O  MOON,  THOU 
CLIMB'ST  THE  SKY" 

1806     1807 
"  W,rf  how  sad  steps,  0  Moon,  thou  dimb'st  the  sky 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face- 
Where  art  thou?   Thou  so  often  seen  on  high 
Runnmg  among  the  elouds  a  Wood-nymphs  race- 
Unhappy  Nuns,  whose  eommon  breath  s  a  sigh 
Which  they  would  stifle,  move  at  such  a  pace! 
The  northern  Wind,  to  call  thee  to  the  chase. 
Must  blow  to-night  his  bugle  horn.    Had  I 
The  power  of  Merlin,  Goddess!  this  should  be- 
And  all  the  stars,  fast  as  the  clouds  were  riven. 
Should  sally  forth,  to  keep  thee  company, 
Hurrying  and  sparkling  through  the  clear  blue  heaven. 
But,  Cynth,a!  should  to  thee  the  palm  be  given. 
Queen  both  for  beauty  and  for  majesty 


[33  ] 


THE  FORCE  OF  PRAYER 

And  hither  is  young  Romilly  come, 
And  what  may  now  forbid 
That  he,  perhaps  for  the  hundredth  time, 
Shall  bound  across  The  Strid? 

He  sprang  in  glee,  —  for  what  cared  he 
That  the  river  was  strong,  and  the  rocks  were  steep?- 
But  the  greyhound  in  the  leash  hung  back. 
And  checked  him  in  his  leap. 

The  Boy  is  in  the  arms  of  Wharf, 
And  strangled  by  a  merciless  force; 
For  never  more  was  young  Romilly  seen 
Till  he  rose  a  lifeless  corse. 

Now  there  is  stillness  in  the  vale, 
And  long,  unspeaking  sorrow: 
Wharf  shall  be  to  pitying  hearts 
A  name  more  sad  than  Yarrow. 

If  for  a  lover  the  Lady  wept, 

A  solace  she  might  borrow 

From  death,  and  from  the  passion  of  death;  — 

Old  Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 

She  w^eeps  not  for  the  wedding-day 
Which  was  to  be  to-morrow: 
I  1G8  1 


THE  FORCE  OF  PRAYER 

Her  hope  was  a  further-looking  hope, 
And  hers  is  a  mother's  sorrow. 

He  was  a  tree  that  stood  alone. 
And  proudly  did  its  branches  wave; 
And  the  root  of  this  delightful  tree 
Was  in  her  husband's  grave ! 

Long,  long  in  darkness  did  she  sit. 
And  her  first  words  were  "Let  there  be 
In  Bolton,  on  the  field  of  Wharf, 
A  stately  Priory!" 

The  stately  Priory  was  reared; 
And  Wharf,  as  he  moved  along. 
To  matins  joined  a  mournful  voice. 
Nor  failed  at  evensong. 

And  the  Lady  prayed  in  heaviness 
That  looked  not  for  relief! 
But  slowly  did  her  succour  come. 
And  a  patience  to  her  grief. 

Oh !  there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart 
That  shall  lack  a  timely  end. 
If  but  to  God  we  turn,  and  ask 
Of  Him  to  be  our  friend! 
I  169  ] 


COMPOSED  WHILE  THE  AUTHOR  WAS 
ENGAGED  IN  WRITING  A  TRACT  OC- 
CASIONED BY  THE  CONVENTION  OF 
CINTRA 

1808     1815 

Not  'mid  the  world's  vain  objects  that  enslave 

The  free-born  Soul  —  that  World  whose  vaunted  skill 

In  selfish  interest  perverts  the  will. 

Whose  factions  lead  astray  the  wise  and  brave  — 

Not  there;  but  in  dark  wood  and  rocky  cave. 

And  hollow  vale  which  foaming  torrents  fill 

With  omnipresent  murmur  as  they  rave 

Down  their  steep  beds,  that  never  shall  be  still: 

Here,  mighty  Nature !  in  this  school  sublime 

I  weigh  the  hopes  and  fears  of  suffering  Spain; 

For  her  consult  the  auguries  of  time, 

And  through  the  human  heart  explore  my  way; 

And  look  and  listen  —  gathering,  whence  I  may, 

Triumph,  and  thoughts  no  bondage  can  restrain. 


[  170  ] 


COMPOSED  AT  THE  SAME  TIME  AND  ON 
THE  SAME  OCCASION 

1808     1815 

I  DROPPED  my  pen;  and  listened  to  the  Wind 

That  sang  of  trees  uptorn  and  vessels  tost  — 

A  midnight  harmony;  and  wholly  lost 

To  the  general  sense  of  men  by  chains  confined 

Of  business,  care,  or  pleasure;  or  resigned 

To  timely  sleep.   Thought  I,  the  impassioned  strain. 

Which,  without  aid  of  numbers,  I  sustain. 

Like  acceptation  from  the  World  will  find. 

Yet  some  with  apprehensive  ear  shall  drink 

A  dirge  devoutly  breathed  o'er  sorrows  past; 

And  to  the  attendant  promise  will  give  heed  — 

The  prophecy,  —  like  that  of  this  wild  blast. 

Which,  while  it  makes  the  heart  with  sadness  shrink, 

Tells  also  of  bright  calms  that  shall  succeed. 


[  171  ] 


GEORGE  AND  SARAH  GREEN 

1808     1839 

Who  weeps  for  strangers?   Many  wept 
For  George  and  Sarah  Green; 

Wept  for  that  pair's  unhappy  fate. 
Whose  grave  may  here  be  seen. 

By  night,  upon  these  stormy  fells. 
Did  wife  and  husband  roam; 

Six  little  ones  at  home  had  left, 
And  could  not  find  that  home. 

For  any  dwelling-place  of  man 

As  vainly  did  they  seek. 
He  perish'd;  and  a  voice  was  heard  — 

The  widow's  lonely  shriek. 

Not  many  steps,  and  she  was  left 

A  body  without  life  — 
A  few  short  steps  were  the  chain  that  bound 

The  husband  to  the  wife. 

Now  do  those  sternly-featured  hills 
Look  gently  on  this  grave; 
[  172  ] 


GEORGE   AND   SARAH   GREEN 

And  quiet  now  are  the  depths  of  air. 
As  a  sea  without  a  wave. 


But  deeper  lies  the  heart  of  peace 

In  quiet  more  profound; 
The  heart  of  quietness  is  here 

Within  this  churchyard  bound. 

And  from  all  agony  of  mind 

It  keeps  them  safe,  and  far 

From  fear  and  grief,  and  from  all  need 
Of  sun  or  guiding  star. 

O  darkness  of  the  grave!  how  deep, 
After  that  living  night  — 

That  last  and  dreary  living  one 
Of  sorrow  and  affright? 

O  sacred  marriage-bed  of  death, 
That  keeps  them  side  by  side 

In  bond  of  peace,  in  bond  of  love. 
That  may  not  be  untied! 


I  173  J 


HOFFER 

1809     1815 

Of  mortal  parents  is  the  Hero  born 

By  whom  the  undaunted  Tyrolese  are  led? 

Or  is  it  Tell's  great  Spirit,  from  the  dead 

Returned  to  animate  an  age  forlorn? 

He  comes  like  Phoebus  through  the  gates  of  morn 

When  dreary  darkness  is  discomfited, 

Yet  mark  his  modest  state!  upon  his  head. 

That  simj)le  crest,  a  heron's  plume,  is  worn. 

O  Liberty !  they  stagger  at  the  shock 

From  van  to  rear  —  and  with  one  mind  would  flee, 

But  half  their  host  is  buried:  —  rock  on  rock 

Descends :  —  beneath  this  godlike  Warrior,  see ! 

Hills,  torrents,  woods,  embodied  to  bemock 

The  Tyrant,  and  confound  his  cruelty. 


[  174] 


"ADVANCE  — COME   FORTH   FROM  THY 
TYROLEAN  GROUND" 

1809     1815 

Advance  —  come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean  ground, 
Dear  Liberty!  stern  Nymph  of  soul  untamed; 
Sweet  Nymph,  O  rightly  of  the  mountains  named! 
Through  the  long  chain  of  x\lps  from  mound  to  mound 
And  o'er  the  eternal  snows,  like  Echo,  bound; 
Like  Echo,  when  the  hunter  train  at  dawn 
Have  roused  her  from  her  sleep :  and  forest-lawn, 
Cliffs,  woods  and  caves,  her  viewless  steps  resound 
And  babble  of  her  pastime!  —  On,  dread  Power! 
With  such  invisible  motion  speed  thy  flight, 
Through  hanging  clouds,  from  craggy  height  to  height. 
Through  the  green  vales  and  through  the  herdsman's 

bower  — 
That  all  the  Alps  may  gladden  in  thy  might, 
Here,  there,  and  in  all  places  at  one  hour. 


175 


FEELINGS  OF  THE  TYROLESE 

1809     1815 

The  Land  we  from  our  fathers  had  in  trust, 

And  to  our  children  will  transmit,  or  die: 

This  is  our  maxim,  this  our  piety; 

And  God  and  Nature  say  that  it  is  just. 

That  which  we  ivould  perform  in  arms  —  we  must! 

We  read  the  dictate  in  the  infant's  eye; 

In  the  wife's  smile;  and  in  the  placid  sky; 

And,  at  our  feet,  amid  the  silent  dust 

Of  them  that  were  before  us.  —  Sing  aloud 

Old  songs,  the  precious  music  of  the  heart! 

Give,  herds  and  flocks,  your  voices  to  the  wind! 

While  we  go  forth,  a  self-devoted  crowd, 

With  weapons  grasped  in  fearless  hands,  to  assert 

Our  virtue,  and  to  vindicate  mankind. 


176 


"ALAS!  WHAT  BOOTS  THE  LONG 
LABORIOUS  QUEST" 

1809     1815 

Alas  !  what  boots  the  long  laborious  quest 

Of  moral  prudence,  sought  through  good  and  ill; 

Or  pains  abstruse  —  to  elevate  the  will, 

And  lead  us  on  to  that  transcendent  rest 

Where  every  passion  shall  the  sway  attest 

Of  Reason,  seated  on  her  sovereign  hill; 

What  is  it  but  a  vain  and  curious  skill. 

If  sapient  Germany  must  lie  deprest. 

Beneath  the  brutal  sword?  —  Her  haughty  Schools 

Shall  blush ;  and  may  not  w^e  with  sorrow  say  — 

A  few  strong  instincts  and  a  few  plain  rules. 

Among  the  herdsmen  of  the  Alps,  have  wrought 

More  for  mankind  at  this  unhappy  day 

Than  all  the  pride  and  intellect  and  thought? 


[  177] 


"AND  IS  IT  AMONG  RUDE  UNTUTORED 
Dx\LES" 

1809     1815 

And  is  it  among  rude  untutored  Dales, 
There,  and  there  only,  that  the  heart  is  true? 
And,  rising  to  repel  or  to  subdue. 
Is  it  by  rocks  and  woods  that  man  prevails? 
Ah  no!  though  Nature's  dread  protection  fails. 
There  is  a  bulwark  in  the  soul.   This  knew 
Iberian  Burghers  when  the  sword  they  drew 
In  Zaragoza,  naked  to  the  gales 
Of  fiercely-breathing  war.   The  truth  was  felt 
By  Palafox,  and  many  a  brave  compeer, 
Like  him  of  noble  birth  and  noble  mind; 
By  ladies,  meek-eyed  women  without  fear; 
And  wanderers  of  the  street,  to  whom  is  dealt 
The  bread  which  without  industry  they  find. 


[  1'8  ] 


O'ER  THE  WIDE  EARTH,  ON  MOUNTAIN 
AND  ON  PLAIN" 

1809     1815 

O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain. 

Dwells  in  the  aflFections  and  the  soul  of  man 

A  Godhead,  like  the  universal  Pan; 

But  more  exalted,  with  a  brighter  train : 

And  shall  his  bounty  be  dispensed  in  vain. 

Showered  equally  on  city  and  on  field. 

And  neither  hope  nor  stedfast  promise  yield 

In  these  usurping  times  of  fear  and  pain? 

Such  doom  awaits  us.   Nay,  forbid  it  Heaven! 

We  know  the  arduous  strife,  the  eternal  laws 

To  which  the  triumph  of  all  good  is  given. 

High  sacrifice,  and  labour  without  pause. 

Even  to  the  death :  —  else  wherefore  should  the  eye 

Of  man  converse  with  immortality? 


179 


ON    THE    FINAL    SUBMISSION    OF    THE 
TYROLESE 

1809     1815 

It  was  a  moral  end  for  which  they  fought; 

Else  how,  when  mighty  Thrones  were  put  to  shame. 

Could  they,  poor  Shepherds,  have  preserved  an  aim, 

A  resolution,  or  enlivening  thought? 

Nor  hath  that  moral  good  been  vainly  sought; 

For  in  their  magnanimity  and  fame 

Powers  have  they  left,  an  impulse,  and  a  claim 

Which  neither  can  be  overturned  nor  bought. 

Sleep,  Warriors,  sleep!  among  your  hills  repose! 

We  know  that  ye,  beneath  the  stern  control 

Of  awful  prudence,  keep  the  unvanquished  soul: 

And  when,  impatient  of  her  guilt  and  woes, 

Europe  breaks  forth;  then,  Shepherds!  shall  ye  rise 

For  perfect  triumph  o'er  your  Enemies. 


180 


HAIL,   ZARAGOZA!  IF  WITH  UNWET 
EYE  "28 

1809     1815 

Hail,  Zaragoza!  If  with  unwet  eye 
We  can  approach,  thy  sorrow  to  behold. 
Yet  is  the  heart  not  pitiless  nor  cold; 
Such  spectacle  demands  not  tear  or  sigh. 
These  desolate  remains  are  trophies  high 
Of  more  than  martial  courage  in  the  breast 
Of  peaceful  civic  virtue :  they  attest 
Thy  matchless  worth  to  all  posterity. 
Blood  flowed  before  thy  sight  without  remorse; 
Disease  consumed  thy  vitals;  War  upheaved 
The  ground  beneath  thee  with  volcanic  force: 
Dread  trials !  yet  encountered  and  sustained 
Till  not  a  wreck  of  help  or  hope  remained, 
And  law  was  from  necessity  received. 


181 


SAY,    WHAT    IS    HONOUR?  — 'TIS    THE 
FINEST  SENSE" 

1809     1815 

Say,  what  is  Honour?  —  'T  is  the  finest  sense 
Of  justice  which  the  human  mind  can  frame. 
Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  disclaim. 
And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all  offence 
Suffered  or  done.   When  lawless  violence 
Invades  a  Realm,  so  pressed  that  in  the  scale 
Of  perilous  war  her  weightiest  armies  fail. 
Honour  is  hopeful  elevation,  —  whence 
Glory,  and  triumph.   Yet  with  politic  skill 
Endangered  States  may  yield  to  terms  unjust; 
Stoop  their  proud  heads,  but  not  unto  the  dust  — 
A  Foe's  most  favourite  purpose  to  fulfil: 
Happy  occasions  oft  by  self-mistrust 
Are  forfeited;  but  infamy  doth  kill. 


182  ] 


THE  I^IARTIAL  COURAGE  OF  A  DAY 
IS  VAIN" 

1809     1815 

The  martial  courage  of  a  day  is  vain, 
An  empty  noise  of  death  the  battle's  roar. 
If  vital  hope  be  wanting  to  restore. 
Or  fortitude  be  wanting  to  sustain, 
Armies  or  kingdoms.   We  have  heard  a  strain 
Of  triumph,  how  the  labouring  Danube  bore 
A  weight  of  hostile  corses;  drenched  with  gore 
Were  the  wide  fields,  the  hamlets  heaped  with  slain. 
Yet  see  (the  mighty  tumult  overpast) 
Austria  a  daughter  of  her  Throne  hath  sold! 
And  her  Tyrolean  Champion  we  behold 
Murdered,  like  one  ashore  by  shipwreck  cast. 
Murdered  without  relief.  Oh !  blind  as  bold. 
To  think  that  such  assurance  can  stand  fast! 


183 


^*BRAVE  SCHILL!  BY  DEATH  DELIVERED' 

1809     1815 

Brave  Schill!  by  death  delivered,  take  thy  flight 

From  Prussia's  timid  region.    Go,  and  rest 

With  heroes,  'mid  the  islands  of  the  Blest, 

Or  in  the  fields  of  empyrean  light. 

A  meteor  wert  thou  crossing  a  dark  night: 

Yet  shall  thy  name,  conspicuous  and  sublime. 

Stand  in  the  spacious  firmament  of  time, 

Fixed  as  a  star:  such  glory  is  thy  right. 

Alas !  it  may  not  be :  for  earthly  fame 

Is  Fortune's  frail  dependant;  yet  there  lives 

A  Judge,  who,  as  man  claims  by  merit,  gives; 

To  whose  all-pondering  mind  a  noble  aim, 

Faithfully  kept,  is  as  a  noble  deed; 

In  whose  pure  sight  all  virtue  doth  succeed. 


184 


"CALL  NOT  THE  ROYAL  SWEDE 
UNFORTUNATE" 

1809     1815 

Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate. 
Who  never  did  to  Fortune  bend  the  knee; 
Who  slighted  fear;  rejected  steadfastly 
Temptation;  and  whose  kingly  name  and  state 
Have  "perished  by  his  choice,  and  not  his  fate!" 
Hence  lives  He,  to  his  inner  self  endeared; 
And  hence,  wherever  virtue  is  revered. 
He  sits  a  more  exalted  Potentate, 
Throned  in  the  hearts  of  men.  Should  Heaven  ordain 
That  this  great  Servant  of  a  righteous  cause 
Must  still  have  sad  or  vexing  thoughts  to  endure. 
Yet  may  a  sympathising  spirit  pause. 
Admonished  by  these  truths,  and  quench  all  pain 
In  thankful  joy  and  gratulation  pure.^^ 


185 


"LOOK    NOW    ON    THAT    ADVENTURER 
WHO  HATH  PAID" 

1809     1815 

Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hath  paid 
His  vows  to  Fortune;  who,  in  cruel  shght 
Of  virtuous  hope,  of  hberty,  and  right. 
Hath  followed  wheresoe'er  a  way  was  made 
By  the  blind  Goddess,  —  ruthless,  undismayed; 
And  so  hath  gained  at  length  a  prosperous  height. 
Round  which  the  elements  of  worldly  might 
Beneath  his  haughty  feet,  like  clouds,  are  laid. 
O  joyless  power  that  stands  by  lawless  force! 
Curses  are  his  dire  portion,  scorn,  and  hate. 
Internal  darkness  and  unquiet  breath; 
And,  if  old  judgments  keej>  their  sacred  course, 
Him  from  that  height  shall  Heaven  precipitate 
By  violent  and  ignominious  death.  . 


[  180  ] 


"IS  THERE  A  POWER  THAT  CAN  SUSTAIN 
AND  CHEER" 

1809     1815 

Is  there  a  power  that  can  sustain  and  cheer 
The  captive  chieftain,  by  a  tyrant's  doom. 
Forced  to  descend  into  his  destined  tomb  — 
A  dungeon  dark !  where  he  must  waste  the  year. 
And  lie  cut  off  from  all  his  heart  holds  dear; 
What  time  his  injured  country  is  a  stage 
Whereon  deliberate  Valour  and  the  rage 
Of  righteous  Vengeance  side  by  side  appear. 
Filling  from  morn  to  night  the  heroic  scene 
^^'ith  deeds  of  hope  and  everlasting  praise:  — 
Say  can  he  think  of  this  with  mind  serene 
And  silent  fetters?   Yes,  if  visions  bright 
Shine  on  his  soul,  reflected  from  the  days 
When  he  himself  was  tried  in  open  light. 


187 


AH!  WHERE  IS  PALAFOX?  NOR  TONGUE 
NOR  PEN" 

1810     1815 

An!  where  is  Palafox?   Nor  tongue  nor  pen 
Reports  of  him,  his  dwelling  or  his  grave! 
Does  yet  the  unheard-of  vessel  ride  the  wave? 
Or  is  she  swallowed  up,  remote  from  ken 
Of  pitying  human  nature?   Once  again 
Methinks  that  we  shall  hail  thee.  Champion  brave, 
Redeemed  to  baffle  that  imperial  Slave, 
And  through  all  Europe  cheer  desponding  men 
With  new-born  hoi)c.   Unbounded  is  the  might 
Of  martyrdom,  and  fortitude,  and  right. 
Hark,  how  tliy  Country  triumphs!  —  Smilingly 
The  Eternal  looks  upon  her  sword  that  gleams. 
Like  his  own  lightning,  over  mountains  high. 
On  rampart,  and  the  banks  of  all  her  streams. 


188  1 


IN  DUE  OBSERVANCE  OF  AN  ANCIENT 
RITE" 

1810     1815 

In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite, 

The  rude  Biscayans,  when  their  children  lie 

Dead  in  the  sinless  time  of  infancy, 

Attire  the  peaceful  corse  in  vestments  white; 

And,  in  like  sign  of  cloudless  triumph  bright. 

They  bind  the  unoffending  creature's  brows 

With  happy  garlands  of  the  pure  white  rose: 

Then  do  a  festal  company  unite 

In  choral  song;  and,  while  the  uplifted  cross 

Of  Jesus  goes  before,  the  child  is  borne 

Uncovered  to  his  grave:  't  is  closed,  —  her  loss 

The  Mother  then  mourns,  as  she  needs  must  mourn; 

But  soon,  through  Christian  faith,  is  grief  subdued; 

And  joy  returns,  to  brighten  fortitude. 


189 


FEELINGS  OF  A  NOBLE  BISCAYAN  AT 
ONE  OF  THOSE  FUNERALS 

1810     1815 

Yet,  yet,  Biscayans!  we  must  meet  our  Foes 

With  firmer  soul,  yet  labour  to  regain 

Our  ancient  freedom;  else  't  were  worse  than  vain 

To  gather  round  the  bier  these  festal  shows. 

A  garland  fashioned  of  the  pure  white  rose 

Becomes  not  one  whose  father  is  a  slave: 

Oh,  bear  the  infant  covered  to  his  grave! 

These  venerable  mountains  now  enclose 

A  people  sunk  in  apathy  and  fear. 

If  this  endure,  farewell,  for  us,  all  good! 

The  awful  light  of  heavenly  innocence 

Will  fail  to  illuminate  the  infant's  bier; 

And  guilt  and  shame,  from  which  is  no  defence, 

Descend  on  all  that  issues  from  our  blood. 


190  ] 


ON  A  CELEBRATED  E\^NT  IN  ANCIENT 
HISTORY, 

1810     1815 

A  Roman  Master  stands  on  Grecian  ground. 
And  to  the  people  at  the  Isthmian  Games 
Assembled,  He,  by  a  herald's  voice,  proclaims 
The  Liberty  of  Greece  :  —  the  words  rebound 
Until  all  voices  in  one  voice  are  drowned; 
Glad  acclamation  by  which  air  was  rent! 
And  birds,  high-flying  in  the  element, 
Dropped  to  the  earth,  astonished  at  the  sound ! 
Yet  were  the  thoughtful  grieved;  and  still  that  voice 
Haunts,  with  sad  echoes,  musing  Fancy's  ear: 
Ah!  that  a  Conqueror's  words  should  be  so  dear: 
Ah !  that  a  boon  could  shed  such  rapturous  joj^s ! 
A  gift  of  that  which  is  not  to  be  given 
By  all  the  blended  powers  of  Earth  and  Heaven. 


191  ] 


UPON  THE  SAME  EVENT 

1810     1815 

When,  far  and  wide,  swift  as  the  beams  of  morn 
The  tidings  past  of  servitude  repealed. 
And  of  that  joy  which  shook  the  Isthmian  Field, 
The  rongh  ^Etolians  smiled  with  bitter  scorn. 
"T  is  known,"  cried  they,  "that  he,  who  would  adorn 
His  envied  temples  with  the  Isthmian  crown, 
Must  either  win,  through  effort  of  his  own. 
The  prize,  or  be  content  to  see  it  worn 
By  more  deserving  brows.  —  Yet  so  ye  i)rop. 
Sons  of  the  brave  who  fought  at  Marathon, 
Your  feeble  spirits!  Greece  her  head  hath  bowed, 
As  if  the  wreath  of  liberty  thereon 
Would  fix  itself  as  smoothly  as  a  cloud. 
Which,  at  Jove's  will,  descends  on  Pelion's  top.'* 


[  192  ] 


THE  OAK  OF  GUERNICA 

1810     1815 

The  ancient  oak  of  Guernica,  says  Laborde  in  his  account 
of  Biscay,  is  a  most  venerable  natural  monument.  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  in  the  year  1476,  after  hearing  mass  in  the 
church  of  Santa  Maria  de  la  Antigua,  repaired  to  this  tree, 
under  which  they  swore  to  the  Biscayans  to  maintain  their 
fueros  (privileges).  What  other  interest  belongs  to  it  in  the 
minds  of  this  people  will  appear  from  the  following. 

SUPPOSED  ADDRESS  TO  THE  SAME 

Oak  of  Guernica!  Tree  of  holier  power 
Than  that  which  in  Dodona  did  enshrine 
(So  faith  too  fondly  deemed)  a  voice  divine 
Heard  from  the  depths  of  its  aerial  bower  — 
How  canst  thou  flourish  at  this  blighting  hour? 
What  hope,  what  joy  can  sunshine  bring  to  thee. 
Or  the  soft  breezes  from  the  Atlantic  sea. 
The  dews  of  morn,  or  April's  tender  shower .'' 
Stroke  merciful  and  welcome  would  that  be 
Which  should  extend  thy  branches  on  the  ground. 
If  never  more  within  their  shady  round 
Those  lofty-minded  Lawgivers  shall  meet. 
Peasant  and  lord,  in  their  appointed  seat. 
Guardians  of  Biscay's  ancient  liberty, 
f  193  1 


INDIGNATION  OF  A  HIGH-MINDED 
SPANIARD 

1810     1815 

We  can  endure  that  He  should  waste  our  lands, 
Despoil  our  temples,  and  by  sword  and  flame 
Return  us  to  the  dust  from  which  we  came; 
Such  food  a  Tyrant's  appetite  demands : 
And  we  can  brook  the  thought  that  by  his  hands 
Spain  may  be  overpowered,  and  he  possess, 
For  his  delight,  a  solemn  wilderness 
Where  all  the  brave  lie  dead.   But,  when  of  bands 
Which  he  will  break  for  us  he  dares  to  speak, 
Of  benefits,  and  of  a  future  day 
When  our  enlightened  minds  shall  bless  his  sway; 
Then,  the  strained  heart  of  fortitude  proves  weak; 
Our  groans,  our  blushes,  our  pale  cheeks  declare 
That  he  has  power  to  inflict  what  we  lack  strength 
to  bear. 


194 


AVAUNT    ALL    SPECIOUS    PLIANCY    OF 
MIND" 

1810     1815 

AvAUNT  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind 

In  men  of  low  degree,  all  smooth  pretence ! 

I  better  like  a  blunt  indifference, 

And  self-respecting  slowness,  disinclined 

To  win  me  at  first  sight:  and  be  there  joined 

Patience  and  temperance  with  this  high  reserve. 

Honour  that  knows  the  path  and  will  not  swerve; 

Affections,  which,  if  put  to  proof,  are  kind; 

And  piety  towards  God.   Such  men  of  old 

Were  England's  native  growth;  and,  throughout 

Spain 
(Thanks  to  high  God)  forests  of  such  remain: 
Then  for  that  Country  let  our  hopes  be  bold; 
For  matched  with  these  shall  policy  prove  vain. 
Her  arts,  her  strength,  her  iron,  and  her  gold. 


195 


"O'ERWEENING  STATESMEN  HAVE  FULL 
LONG  RELIED  "30 

1810     1815 

O'erweening  Statesmen  have  full  long  relied 
On  fleets  and  armies,  and  external  wealth: 
But  from  within  proceeds  a  Nation's  health; 
Which  shall  not  fail,  though  poor  men  cleave  with 

pride 
To  the  paternal  floor;  or  turn  aside. 
In  the  thronged  city,  from  the  walks  of  gain. 
As  being  all  unworthy  to  detain 
A  Soul  by  contemplation  sanctified. 
There  are  who  cannot  languish  in  this  strife, 
Spaniards  of  every  rank,  by  whom  the  good 
Of  such  high  course  was  felt  and  understood; 
Who  to  their  Country's  cause  have  bound  a  life 
Erewhile,  by  solemn  consecration,  given 
To  labour  and  to  prayer,  to  Nature,  and  to  Heaven 


196 


THE  FRENCH  AND  THE  SPANISH 
GUERILLAS 

1810     1815 

Hunger,  and  sultry  heat,  and  nipping  blast 
From  bleak  hill-top,  and  length  of  march  by  night 
Through  heavy  swamp,  or  over  snow-clad  height  — 
These  hardships  ill-sustained,  these  dangers  past, 
The  roving  Spanish  Bands  are  reached  at  last, 
Charged,  and  dispersed  like  foam:  but  as  a  flight 
Of  scattered  quails  by  signs  do  reunite, 
So  these,  —  and,  heard  of  once  again,  are  chased 
With  combinations  of  long-practised  art 
And  newly-kindled  hope ;  but  they  are  fled  — 
Gone  are  they,  viewless  as  the  buried  dead: 
Where    now?  —  Their   sword   is    at    the    Foeman's 

heart ; 
And  thus  from  year  to  year  his  walk  they  thwart, 
And  hang  like  dreams  around  his  guilty  bed. 


197 


EPITAPHS 

TRANSLATED  FROM  CHIABRERA 

1810 

Those  from  Chiabrera  were  chiefly  translated  when  Mr. 
Coleridge  was  writing  his  Friend,  in  which  periodical  my 
"Essay  on  Epitaphs,"  written  about  that  time,  was  first 
published.  For  further  notice  of  Chiabrera,  in  connection 
with  his  Epitaphs,  see  "Musings  at  Aquapendente." 

I 

1810     1837 

Weep  not,  beloved  Friciid.s!  nor  let  the  air 
For  me  with  sighs  be  troubled.   Not  from  life 
Have  I  been  taken;  this  is  genuine  life 
And  this  alone  —  the  life  which  now  I  live 
In  peace  eternal;  where  desire  and  joy 
Togetlier  move  in  fellowship  without  end.  — 
Francesco  Ceni  willed  that,  after  death, 
His  tombstone  thus  should  speak  for  him.  And  surely 
Small  cause  there  is  for  that  fond  wish  of  ours 
Long  to  continue  in  this  world;  a  world 
That  keeps  not  faith,  nor  yet  can  i)oint  a  hope 
To  good,  whereof  itself  is  destitute. 
[  108  1 


EPITAPHS 
II 

1810     1810 

Perhaps  some  needful  service  of  th-e  State 
Drew  Titus  from  the  depth  of  studious  bowers, 
And  doomed  him  to  contend  in  faithless  courts, 
Where  gold  determines  between  right  and  wrong. 
Yet  did  at  length  his  loyalty  of  heart. 
And  his  pure  native  genius,  lead  him  back 
To  wait  upon  the  bright  and  gracious  Muses, 
Whom  he  had  early  loved.   And  not  in  vain 
Such  course  he  held!   Bologna's  learned  schools 
Were  gladdened  by  the  Sage's  voice,  and  hung 
With  fondness  on  those  sweet  Nestorian  strains. 
There  pleasure  crowned  his  days;  and  all  his  thoughts 
A  roseate  fragrance  breathed.  —  ^^  O  human  life. 
That  never  art  secure  from  dolorous  change ! 
Behold  a  high  injunction  suddenly 
To  Arno's  side  hath  brought  him,  and  he  charmed 
A  Tuscan  audience:  but  full  soon  was  called 
To  the  perpetual  silence  of  the  grave. 
Mourn,  Italy,  the  loss  of  him  who  stood 
A  Champion  stedfast  and  invincible, 
To  quell  the  rage  of  literary  War! 


199 


EPITAPHS 
III 

1810     1810 

O  Tiiou  who  mo  vest  onward  witli  a  mind 
Intent  upon  thy  way,  pause,  though  in  haste! 
'T  will  be  no  fruitless  moment.   I  was  born 
Within  Savona's  walls,  of  gentle  blood. 
On  Tiber's  banks  my  youth  was  dedicate 
To  sacred  studies;  and  the  Roman  Shepherd 
Gave  to  my  charge  Urbino's  numerous  flock. 
Well  did  I  watch,  much  laboured,  nor  had  power 
To  escape  from  many  and  strange  indignities; 
Was  smitten  by  the  great  ones  of  the  world. 
But  did  not  fall;  for  Virtue  braves  all  shocks, 
Upon  herself  resting  immoveable'. 
Me  did  a  kindlier  fortune  then  invite 
To  serve  the  glorious  Henry,  King  of  France, 
And  in  his  hands  I  saw  a  high  reward 
Stretched  out  for  my  acceptance,  —  but  Death  came. 
Now,  Reader,  learn  from  this  my  fate,  how  false. 
How  treacherous  to  her  promise,  is  the  world; 
And  trust  in  God  —  to  whose  eternal  doom 
Must  bend  the  sceptred  Potentates  of  earth. 


200 


EPITAPHS 

IV 

1810     1815 

There  never  breathed  a  man  who,  when  his  life 
Was  closing,  might  not  of  that  life  relate 
Toils  long  and  hard.  —  The  warrior  will  report 
Of  wounds,  and  bright  swords  flashing  in  the  field. 
And  blast  of  trumpets.   He  who  hath  been  doomed 
To  bow  his  forehead  in  the  courts  of  kings, 
Will  tell  of  fraud  and  never-ceasing  hate. 
Envy  and  heart-inquietude,  derived 
From  intricate  cabals  of  treacherous  friends. 
I,  who  on  shipboard  lived  from  earliest  youth. 
Could  represent  the  countenance  horrible 
Of  the  vexed  waters,  and  the  indignant  rage 
Of  Auster  and  Bootes.  Fifty  years 
Over  the  well-steered  galleys  did  I  rule :  — 
From  huge  Pelorus  to  the  Atlantic  pillars. 
Rises  no  mountain  to  mine  eyes  unknown; 
And  the  broad  gulfs  I  traversed  oft  and  oft: 
Of  every  cloud  which  in  the  heavens  might  stir 
I  knew  the  force;  and  hence  the  rough  sea's  pride 
Availed  not  to  my  Vessel's  overthrow. 
What  noble  pomp  and  frequent  have  not  I 
On  regal  decks  beheld !  yet  in  the  end 
I  learned  that  one  poor  moment  can  sufl5ce 
[  201  1 


EPITAPHS 

To  equalise  the  lofty  and  the  low. 

We  sail  the  sea  of  life  —  a  Calm  One  finds, 

And  One  a  Tempest  —  and,  the  voyage  o'er, 

Death  is  the  quiet  haven  of  us  all. 

If  more  of  my  condition  ye  would  know, 

Savona  was  my  birth-place,  and  I  sprang 

Of  noble  parents;  seventy  years  and  three 

Lived  I  —  then  yielded  to  a  slow  disease. 


1810     1837 

True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salincro 
With  an  untoward  fate  was  long  involved 
In  odious  litigation;  and  full  long. 
Fate  harder  still !  had  he  to  endure  assaults 
Of  racking  malady.  And  true  it  is 
That  not  the  less  a  frank  courageous  heart 
And  buoyant  spirit  triumphed  over  pain; 
And  he  was  strong  to  follow  in  the  steps 
Of  the  fair  Muses.   Not  a  covert  path 
Leads  to  the  dear  Parnassian  forest's  shade, 
That  might  from  him  be  hidden;  not  a  track 
Mounts  to  j)cllucid  IIii)pocrcne,  but  he 
Had  traced  its  windings.  —  This  Savona  knows. 
Yet  no  sepulchral  honours  to  her  Son 
I  202  1 


EPITAPHS 

She  paid,  for  in  our  age  the  heart  is  ruled 

Only  by  gold.   And  now  a  simple  stone 

Inscribed  with  this  memorial  here  is  raised 

By  his  bereft,  his  lonely,  Chiabrera. 

Think  not,  O  Passenger!  who  read'st  the  lines, 

That  an  exceeding  love  hath  dazzled  me; 

No  —  he  was  One  whose  memory  ought  to  spread 

Where'er  Permessus  bears  an  honoured  name. 

And  live  as  long  as  its  pure  stream  shall  flow. 

VI 

1810     1815 

Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy 
Was  I,  Roberto  Dati,  and  I  took 
In  Malta  the  white  symbol  of  the  Cross: 
Nor  in  life's  vigorous  season  did  I  shun 
Hazard  or  toil ;  among  the  sands  was  seen 
Of  Libya;  and  not  seldom,  on  the  banks 
Of  wide  Hungarian  Danube,  't  was  my  lot 
To  hear  the  sanguinary  trumpet  sounded. 
So  lived  I,  and  repined  not  at  such  fate: 
This  only  grieves  me,  for  it  seems  a  wrong. 
That  stripped  of  arms  I  to  my  end  am  brought 
On  the  soft  down  of  my  paternal  home. 
Yet  haply  Arno  shall  be  spared  all  cause 
f  203  1 


EPITAPHS 

To  lilush  for  mc.   Thou,  loiter  not  nor  halt 
In  thy  appointed  way,  and  bear  in  mind 
How  fleeting  and  how  frail  is  human  life! 

VII 

1810     1837 

O  FLOWER  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood, 

And  all  that  generous  nurture  breeds  to  make 

Youth  amiable;  O  friend  so  true  of  soul 

To  fair  Aglaia;  by  what  envy  moved, 

Lelius!  has  death  cut  short  thy  brilliant  day 

In  its  sweet  o])ening?  and  what  dire  mishap 

Has  from  Savona  torn  her  best  delight? 

For  thee  she  mourns,  nor  e'er  will  cease  to  mourn; 

And,  should  the  out-pourings  of  her  eyes  suffice  not 

For  her  heart's  grief,  she  will  entreat  Sebeto 

Not  to  withhold  his  bounteous  aid,  Sebeto 

Who  saw  thee,  on  his  margin,  yield  to  death, 

In  the  chaste  arms  of  thy  beloved  Love! 

What  profit  riches?  what  does  youth  avail! 

Dust  are  our  hopes;  —  I,  weeping  bitterly. 

Penned  these  sad  lines,  nor  can  forbear  to  pray 

That  every  gentle  Spirit  hither  led 

]\Iay  read  them,  not  without  some  bitter  tears. 


204 


EPITAPHS 
VIII 

1810     1815 

Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  He 

On  whom  the  duty  fell  (for  at  that  time 

The  father  sojourned  in  a  distant  land) 

Deposit  in  the  hollow  of  this  tomb 

A  brother's  Child,  most  tenderly  beloved! 

Francesco  was  the  name  the  Youth  had  borne, 

PozzoBONNELLi  his  illustrious  house; 

And,  when  beneath  this  stone  the  Corse  was  laid, 

The  eyes  of  all  Savona  streamed  with  tears. 

Alas!  the  twentieth  April  of  his  life 

Had  scarcely  flowered:  and  at  this  early  time. 

By  genuine  virtue  he  inspired  a  hope 

That  greatly  cheered  his  country:  to  his  kin 

He  promised  comfort ;  and  the  flattering  thoughts 

His  friends  had  in  their  fondness  entertained. 

He  suffered  not  to  languish  or  decay. ^^ 

Now  is  there  not  good  reason  to  break  forth 

Into  a  passionate  lament?  —  O  Soul! 

Short  while  a  Pilgrim  in  our  nether  world. 

Do  thou  enjoy  the  calm  empyreal  air; 

And  round  this  earthly  tomb  let  roses  rise. 

An  everlasting  spring!  in  memory 

Of  that  delightful  fragrance  which  was  once 

From  thy  mild  manners  quietly  exhaled. 


EPITAPHS 
IX 

1810     1815 

Pause,  courteous  Spirit !  —  Balbi  supplicates 
That  Thou,  with  no  reluctant  voice,  for  him 
Here  laid  in  mortal  darkness,  wouldst  prefer 
A  prayer  to  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 
This  to  the  dead  by  sacred  right  belongs; 
All  else  is  nothing.  —  Did  occasion  suit 
To  tell  his  worth,  the  marble  of  this  tomb 
Would  ill  suffice:  for  Plato's  lore  sublime. 
And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Stagyrite, 
Enriched  and  beautified  his  studious  mind: 
With  Archimedes  also  he  conversed 
As  with  a  chosen  friend;  nor  did  he  leave 
Those  laureat  wreaths  ungathered  which  the 

Nymphs 
Twine  near  their  loved  Permessus.  —  Finally, 
Himself  above  each  lower  thought  uplifting. 
His  ears  he  closed  to  listen  to  the  songs 
Which  Sion's  Kings  did  consecrate  of  old; 
And  his  Permessus  found  on  Lebanon. 
A  blessed  Man!  who  of  protracted  days 
Made  not,  as  thousands  do,  a  vulgar  sleep; 
But  truly  did  He  live  his  life.   Urbino, 
Take  pride  in  him!  —  O  Passenger,  farewell! 
I  200  1 


MATERNAL  GRIEF 


1810     1842 


This  was  in  part  an  overflow  from  the  SoHtary's  description 
of  his  own  and  his  wife's  feelings  upon  the  decease  of  their 
children.   (See  "Excursion,"  book  in.) 

Departed  Child !  I  could  forget  thee  once 
Though  at  my  bosom  nursed;  this  woeful  gain 
Thy  dissolution  brings,  that  in  my  soul 
Is  present  and  perpetually  abides 
A  shadow,  never,  never  to  be  displaced 
By  the  returning  substance,  seen  or  touched. 
Seen  by  mine  eyes,  or  clasped  in  my  embrace. 
Absence  and  death  how  differ  they !  and  how 
Shall  I  admit  that  nothing  can  restore 
What  one  short  sigh  so  easily  removed.-^  — 
Death,  life,  and  sleep,  reality  and  thought. 
Assist  me,  God,  their  boundaries  to  know, 
O  teach  me  calm  submission  to  thy  Will ! 
The  Child  she  mourned  had  overstepped  the 
pale 
Of  Infancy,  but  still  did  breathe  the  air 
That  sanctifies  its  confines,  and  partook 
Reflected  beams  of  that  celestial  light 
To  all  the  Little-ones  on  sinful  earth 
f  207  1 


MATERNAL  GRIEF 

Not  unvouchsafed  —  a  light  that  warmed  and  cheered 
Those  several  qualities  of  heart  and  mind 
Which,  in  her  own  blest  nature,  rooted  deep, 
Daily  before  the  Mother's  watchful  eye, 
And  not  hers  only,  their  peculiar  charms 
Unfolded,  —  beauty,  for  its  present  self. 
And  for  its  promises  to  future  years. 
With  not  unfrequent  rapture  fondly  hailed. 

Have  you  espied  upon  a  dewy  lawn 
A  pair  of  Leverets  each  provoking  each 
To  a  continuance  of  their  fearless  sport, 
Two  separate  Creatures  in  their  several  gifts 
Abounding,  but  so  fashioned  that,  in  all 
That  Nature  prompts  them  to  display,  their  looks, 
Their  starts  of  motion  and  their  fits  of  rest. 
An  undistinguishable  style  appears 
And  character  of  gladness,  as  if  Spring 
Lodged  in  their  innocent  bosoms,  and  the  spirit 
Of  the  rejoicing  morning  were  their  own? 

Such  union,  in  the  lovely  Girl  maintained 
And  her  twin  Brother,  had  the  parent  seen. 
Ere,  pouncing  like  a  ravenous  bird  of  prey, 
Death  in  a  moment  parted  them,  and  left 
The  Mother,  in  her  turns  of  anguish,  worse 
Than  desolate;  for  oft-times  from  the  sound 
Of  the  survivor's  sweetest  voice  (dear  child, 
f  208  1 


MATERNAL  GRIEF 

He  knew  it  not)  and  from  his  happiest  looks. 
Did  she  extract  the  food  of  self-reproach, 
As  one  that  lived  ungrateful  for  the  stay 
By  Heaven  afforded  to  uphold  her  maimed 
And  tottering  spirit.    And  full  oft  the  Boy, 
Now  first  acquainted  with  distress  and  grief, 
Shrunk  from  his  Mother's  presence,  shunned  with  fear 
Her  sad  approach,  and  stole  away  to  find. 
In  his  known  haunts  of  joy  where'er  he  might, 
A  more  congenial  object.   But,  as  time 
Softened  her  pangs  and  reconciled  the  child 
To  what  he  saw,  he  gradually  returned. 
Like  a  scared  Bird  encouraged  to  renew 
A  broken  intercourse;  and,  while  his  eyes 
Were  yet  with  pensive  fear  and  gentle  awe 
Turned  upon  her  who  bore  him,  she  would  stoop 
To  imprint  a  kiss  that  lacked  not  power  to  spread 
Faint  colour  over  both  their  pallid  cheeks. 
And  stilled  his  tremulous  lip.    Thus  they  were  calmed 
And.  cheered ;  and  now  together  breathe  fresh  air 
In  open  fields;  and  when  the  glare  of  day 
Is  gone,  and  twilight  to  the  Mother's  wish 
Befriends  the  observance,  readily  they  join 
In  walks  whose  boundary  is  the  lost  One's  grave. 
Which  he  with  flowers  hath  planted,  finding  there 
Amusement,  where  the  Mother  docs  not  miss 
f  209  1 


MATERNAL  GRIEF 

Dear  consolation,  kneeling  on  the  turf 

In  prayer,  yet  blending  with  that  solemn  rite 

Of  pious  faith  the  vanities  of  grief; 

For  such,  by  pitying  Angels  and  by  Spirits 

Transferred  to  regions  upon  which  the  clouds 

Of  our  weak  nature  rest  not,  must  be  deemed 

Those  willing  tears,  and  unforbidden  sighs. 

And  all  those  tokens  of  a  cherished  sorrow, 

Which,  soothed  and  sweetened  by  the  grace  of 

Heaven 
As  now  it  is,  seems  to  her  own  fond  heart, 
Immortal  as  the  love  that  gave  it  being. 


210 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  A  CHILD  THREE 
YEARS  OLD 

1811     1815 

Written  at  Allanbank,  Grasmere.   Picture  of  my  Daughter 
Catharine,  who  died  the  year  after. 

Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild; 

And  Innocence  hath  privilege  in  her 

To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes; 

And  feats  of  cunning;  and  the  pretty  round 

Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 

Mock-chastisement  and  partnership  in  play. 

And,  as  a  faggot  sparkles  on  the  hearth, 

Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone 

Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered 

round 
And  take  delight  in  its  activity; 
Even  so  this  happy  Creature  of  herself 
Is  all-sufficient,  solitude  to  her 
Is  blithe  society,  who  fills  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs. 
Light  are  her  sallies  as  the  tripping  fawn's 
Forth-startled  from  the  fern  where  she  lay 

couched; 

[  211  1 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF   A   CHILD 

Unthouglit-of,  unexpected,  as  the  stir 

Of  the  soft  breeze  ruffling  the  meadow-flowers. 

Or  from  before  it  chasing  wantonly 

The  many-coloured  images  imprest 

Upon  the  bosom  of  a  placid  lake. 


(  212 


SPANISH  GUERILLAS 

1811     1815 

They  seek,  are  sought;  to  daily  battle  led. 
Shrink  not,  though  far  outnumbered  by  their  Foes, 
For  they  have  learnt  to  open  and  to  close 
The  ridges  of  grim  war;  and  at  their  head 
Are  captains  such  as  erst  their  country  bred 
Or  fostered,  self-supported  chiefs,  —  like  those 
Whom  hardy  Rome  was  fearful  to  oppose; 
Whose  desperate  shock  the  Carthaginian  fled. 
In  One  who  lived  unknown  a  shepherd's  life 
Redoubted  Viriatus  breathes  again; 
And  Mina,  nourished  in  the  studious  shade, 
With  that  great  Leader  ^^  vies,  who,  sick  of  strife 
And  bloodshed,  longed  in  quiet  to  be  laid 
In  some  green  island  of  the  western  main. 


213 


"THE  POWER  OF  ARMIES  IS  A  VISIBLE 
THING" 

1811     1815 

The  power  of  Armies  is  a  visible  thing, 
Formal,  and  circumscribed  in  time  and  space; 
But  who  the  limits  of  that  power  shall  trace 
AYhich  a  brave  People  into  light  can  bring 
Or  hide,  at  will,  —  for  freedom  combating 
By  just  revenge  inflamed?   No  foot  may  chase. 
No  eye  can  follow,  to  a  fatal  place 
That  power,  that  spirit,  whether  on  the  wing 
Like  the  strong  wind,  or  sleeping  like  the  wind 
Within  its  awful  caves.  —  From  j'ear  to  year 
Springs  this  indigenous  produce  far  and  near; 
No  craft  this  subtle  element  can  bind, 
Rising  like  water  from  the  soil,  to  find 
In  every  nook  a  lip  that  it  may  cheer. 


214 


'HERE    PAUSE:    THE    POET    CLAIMS    AT 
LEAST  THIS  PRAISE" 

1811     1815 

Here  pause :  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise, 

That  virtuous  Liberty  hath  been  the  scope 

Of  his  pure  song,  which  did  not  shrink  from  hope 

In  the  worst  moment  of  these  evil  days ; 

From  hope,  the  paramount  duty  that  Heaven  lays, 

For  its  own  honour,  on  man's  suffering  heart. 

Never  may  from  our  souls  one  truth  depart  — 

That  an  accursed  thing  it  is  to  gaze 

On  prosperous  tyrants  with  a  dazzled  eye; 

Nor  —  touched  with  due  abhorrence  of  their  guilt 

For  whose  dire  ends  tears  flow,  and  blood  is  spilt, 

And  justice  labours  in  extremity  — 

Forget  thy  weakness,  upon  which  is  built, 

O  wretched  man,  the  throne  of  tyranny ! 


215 


EPISTLE 

TO  SIR  GEORGE  ROWLAND  BEAUMONT,  BART. 

FROM   THE   SOUTHWEST    COAST    OF   CUMBERLAND 

1811       1842 

This  poem  opened,  when  first  written,  with  a  paragraph 
that  has  been  transferred  as  an  introduction  to  the  first 
series  of  my  Scotch  Memorials.  The  journey,  of  which  the 
first  part  is  here  described,  was  from  Grasmere  to  Bootle 
on  the  southwest  coast  of  Cumberland,  the  whole  among 
mountain  roads  through  a  beautiful  country;  and  we  had 
fine  weather.  The  verses  end  with  our  breakfast  at  the  head 
of  Yewdale  in  a  yeoman's  house,  which,  like  all  the  other 
property  in  that  sequestered  vale,  has  passed  or  is  passing 
into  the  hands  of  Mr.  James  Marshall  of  Monk  Coniston,  — 
in  Mr.  Knott's,  the  late  owner's,  time  called  Waterhead. 
Our  hostess  married  a  Mr.  Oldfield,  a  lieutenant  in  the  Navy: 
they  lived  together  for  some  time  at  Hacket,  where  she  still 
resides  as  his  widow.  It  was  in  front  of  that  house,  on  the 
moimtain-side,  near  which  stood  the  peasant  who,  while  we 
were  passing  at  a  distance,  saluted  us,  waving  a  kerchief  in 
lier  hand  as  described  in  the  Poem.  (This  matron  and  her 
husband  were  then  residing  at  the  Hacket.  The  house  and 
its  inmates  are  referred  to  in  the  fifth  book  of  the  "Excur- 
sion," in  the  passage  beginning  — 

"You  behold, 
IIifi;h  on  the  breast  of  yon  dark  nioiiiitain,  dark 
With  stony  barrenness,  a  sliining  speck."  —  J.  C.) 

The  dog  which  we  met  with  soon  after  our  starting  belonged 

[  216  ] 


EPISTLE 

to  Mr.  Rowlandson,  who  for  forty  years  was  curate  of  Gras- 
mere  in  place  of  the  rector,  who  Uved  to  extreme  old  age  in 
a  state  of  insanity.  Of  this  Mr.  R.  much  might  be  said  both 
with  reference  to  his  character,  and  the  way  in  which  he  was 
regarded  by  his  parishioners.  He  was  a  man  of  robust  frame, 
had  a  firm  voice  and  authoritative  manner,  of  strong  natural 
talents,  of  which  he  was  himself  conscious,  for  he  has  been 
heard  to  say  (it  grieves  me  to  add)  with  an  oath  —  "If  I  had 
been  brought  up  at  college  I  should  have  been  a  bishop." 
Two  vices  used  to  struggle  in  him  for  mastery,  avarice  and  the 
love  of  strong  drink:  but  avarice,  as  is  common  in  like  cases, 
always  got  the  better  of  its  opponent;  for,  though  he  was 
often  intoxicated,  it  was  never,  I  believe,  at  his  own  expense. 
As  has  been  said  of  one  in  a  more  exalted  station,  he  would 
take  any  give7i  quantity.  I  have  heard  a  story  of  him  which 
is  worth  the  telling.  One  summer's  morning,  our  Grasmere 
curate,  after  a  night's  carouse  in  the  vale  of  Langdale,  on  his 
return  home,  having  reached  a  point  near  which  the  whole 
of  the  vale  of  Grasmere  might  be  seen  with  the  lake  immedi- 
ately below  him,  stepped  aside  and  sat  down  on  the  turf. 
After  looking  for  some  time  at  the  landscape,  then  in  the 
perfection  of  its  morning  beauty,  he  exclaimed  —  "Good 
God,  that  I  should  have  led  so  long  such  a  life  in  such  a  place!" 
—  This  no  doubt  was  deeply  felt  by  him  at  the  time,  but  I 
am  not  authorised  to  say  that  any  noticeable  amendment 
followed.  Penuriousness  strengthened  upon  him  as  his  body 
grew  feebler  with  age.  He  had  purchased  property  and  kept 
some  land  in  his  own  hands,  but  he  could  not  find  in  his  heart 
to  lay  out  the  necessary  hire  for  labourers  at  the  proper 
season,  and  consequently  he  has  often  been  seen  in  half- 
dotage  working  his  hay  in  the  month  of  November  by  moon- 
light, a  melancholy  sight  which  I  myself  have  witnessed. 
Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said,  this  man,  on  account 

f  217  1 


EPISTLE 

of  liis  talents  and  superior  cflncation,  was  looked  up  to  by 
his  parishioners,  who,  without  a  single  exception,  lived  at  that 
time  (and  most  of  them  upon  their  own  small  inheritances) 
in  a  state*  of  republican  equality,  a  condition  favourable  to 
the  growth  of  kindly  feelings  among  them,  and  in  a  striking 
degree  exclusive  to  temptations  to  gross  vice  and  scandalous 
behaviour.  As  a  pastor  their  curate  did  little  or  nothing  for 
them;  but  what  could  more  strikingly  set  forth  the  efficacy 
of  the  Church  of  England  through  its  Ordinances  and  Liturgy 
than  that,  in  spite  of  the  unworthiness  of  the  minister,  his 
church  was  regularly  attended;  and,  though  there  was  not 
much  appearance  in  his  flock  of  what  might  be  called  animated 
piety,  intoxication  was  rare,  and  dissolute  morals  unknown? 
With  the  Bible  they  were  for  the  most  part  well  acquainted; 
and,  as  was  strikingly  shown  when  they  were  under  affliction, 
must  have  been  supported  and  comforted  by  habitual  belief 
in  those  truths  which  it  is  the  aim  of  the  Church  to  inculcate. 
—  Loufjhrixjg  Tarn.  This  beautiful  pool  and  the  surrounding 
scene  are  minutely  described  in  my  little  Book  on  the  Lakes. 
Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  life,  was  induced, 
by  his  love  of  Nature  and  the  art  of  painting,  to  take  up  his 
abode  at  Old  Brathay,  about  three  miles  from  this  spot,  so 
that  he  must  have  seen  it  under  many  aspects;  and  he  was  so 
much  pleased  with  it  that  he  purchased  the  Tarn  with  a  view 
to  build,  near  it,  such  a  residence  as  is  alluded  to  in  this 
Epistle.  Baronets  and  knights  were  not  so  common  in  that 
day  as  now,  and  Sir  Michael  le  Fleming,  not  liking  to  have 
a  rival  in  that  kind  of  distinction  so  near  him,  claimed  a  sort 
of  lordship  over  the  territory,  and  showed  dispositions  little 
in  unison  with  those  of  Sir  G.  Beaumont,  who  was  eminently 
a  lover  of  peace.  The  project  of  building  was  in  consequence 
given  up,  Sir  George  retaining  possession  of  the  Tarn.  Many 
years  afterwards  a  Kendal  tradesman  born  upon  its  banks 

[  218   I 


EPISTLE 

applied  to  me  for  the  purchase  of  it,  and  accordingly  it  was 
sold  for  the  sum  that  had  been  given  for  it,  and  the  money 
was  laid  out  under  my  direction  upon  a  substantial  oak  fence 
for  a  certain  number  of  yew  trees  to  be  planted  in  Grasmere 
churchyard;  two  were  planted  in  each  enclosure,  with  a  view 
to  remove,  after  a  certain  time,  the  one  which  throve  the 
least.  After  several  years,  the  stouter  plant  being  left,  the 
others  were  taken  up  and  placed  in  other  parts  of  the  same 
churchyard,  and  were  adequately  fenced  at  the  expense  and 
under  the  care  of  the  late  Mr.  Barber,  Mr.  Greenwood,  and 
myself:  the  whole  eight  are  now  thriving,  and  are  already  an 
ornament  to  a  place  which,  during  late  years,  has  lost  much 
of  its  rustic  simplicity  by  the  introduction  of  iron  palisades  to 
fence  off  family  burying-grounds,  and  by  numerous  monu- 
ments, some  of  them  in  very  bad  taste;  from  which  this  place 
of  burial  was  in  my  memory  quite  free.  See  the  lines  in  the 
sixth  book  of  the  "Excursion"  beginning  —  "Green  is  the 
churchyard,  beautiful  and  green."  The  "Epistle"  to  which 
these  notes  refer,  though  written  so  far  back  as  1804,  was 
carefully  revised  so  late  as  1842,  previous  to  its  publication. 
I  am  loth  to  add,  that  it  was  never  seen  by  the  person  to 
whom  it  is  addressed.  So  sensible  am  I  of  the  deficiencies  in 
all  that  I  write,  and  so  far  does  everything  that  I  attempt 
fall  short  of  what  I  wish  it  to  be,  that  even  private  publication, 
if  such  a  term  may  be  allowed,  requires  more  resolution  than 
I  can  command.  I  have  written  to  give  vent  to  my  own  mind, 
and  not  without  hope  that,  some  time  or  other,  kindred  minds 
might  benefit  by  my  labours:  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  I 
should  never  have  ventured  to  send  forth  any  verses  of  mine 
to  the  world  if  it  had  not  been  done  on  the  pressure  of  per- 
sonal occasions.  Had  I  been  a  rich  man,  my  productions,  like 
this  "Epistle,"  the  tragedy  of  the  "Borderers,"  etc.,  would 
most  likely  have  been  confined  to  manuscript. 

f  219  1 


EPISTLE 

Far  from  our  home  by  Grasmerc's  quiet  Lake, 
From  the  Vale's  peace  which  all  her  fields  partake, 
Here  on  the  bleakest  point  of  Cumbria's  shore 
We  sojourn  stunned  by  Ocean's  ceaseless  roar; 
While,  day  by  day,  grim  neighbour!  huge  Black  Comb 
Frowns  deepening  visibly  his  native  gloom, 
Unless,  perchance  rejecting  in  despite 
What  on  the  Plain  ice  have  of  warmth  and  light, 
In  his  own  storms  he  hides  himself  from  sight. 
Rough  is  the  time;  and  thoughts,  that  would  be  free 
From  heaviness,  oft  fly,  dear  Friend,  to  thee; 
Turn  from  a  spot  where  neither  sheltered  road 
Nor  hedge-row  screen  invites  my  steps  abroad; 
Wliere  one  poor  Plane-tree,  having  as  it  might 
Attained  a  stature  twice  a  tall  man's  height, 
Hopeless  of  further  growth,  and  brown  and  sere 
Through  half  the  summer,  stands  with  top  cut  sheer, 
Like  an  unshifting  weathercock  which  proves 
How  cold  the  quarter  that  the  wind  best  loves, 
Or  like  a  Centinel  that,  evermore 
Darkening  the  window,  ill  defends  the  door 
Of  this  unfinished  house  —  a  Fortress  bare. 
Where  strength  has  been  the  Builder's  only  care; 
Whose  rugged  walls  may  still  for  years  demand 
The  final  polish  of  the  Plasterer's  hand. 
—  This  dwelling's  Inmate  more  than  three  weeks  space 
f  220  1 


EPISTLE 

And  oft  a  Prisoner  in  the  cheerless  place, 
I  —  of  whose  touch  the  fiddle  would  complain, 
AYhose  breath  would  labour  at  the  flute  in  vain, 
In  music  all  unversed,  nor  blessed  with  skill 
A  bridge  to  copy,  or  to  paint  a  mill, 
Tired  of  my  books,  a  scanty  company! 
And  tired  of  listening  to  the  boisterous  sea  — 
Pace  between  door  and  window  muttering  rhyme, 
An  old  resource  to  cheat  a  fro  ward  time! 
Though  these  dull  hours  (mine  is  it,  or  their  shame?) 
Would  tempt  me  to  renounce  that  humble  aim. 
—  But  if  there  be  a  Muse  who,  free  to  take 
Her  seat  upon  Olj^mpus,  doth  forsake 
Those  heights  (like  Phoebus  when  his  golden  locks 
He  veiled,  attendant  on  Thessalian  flocks) 
And,  in  disguise,  a  Milkmaid  with  her  pail 
Trips  down  the  pathways  of  some  winding  dale; 
Or,  like  a  Mermaid,  warbles  on  the  shores 
To  fishers  mending  nets  beside  their  doors; 
Or,  Pilgrim-like,  on  forest  moss  reclined. 
Gives  plaintive  ditties  to  the  heedless  wind. 
Or  listens  to  its  play  among  the  boughs 
Above  her  head  and  so  forgets  her  vows  — 
If  such  a  Visitant  of  Earth  there  be 
And  she  would  deign  this  day  to  smile  on  me 
And  aid  my  verse,  content  with  local  bounds 
f  221  1 


EPISTLE 

Of  natural  beauty  and  life's  daily  rounds, 
Thoughts,  chances,  sights,  or  doings,  which  we  tell 
Without  reserve  to  those  whom  we  love  well  — 
Then  haply,  Beaumont !  words  in  current  dear 
Will  flow,  and  on  a  welcome  page  appear 
Duly  before  thy  sight,  unless  they  perish  here. 

What  shall  I  treat  of?  News  from  Mona's  Isle? 
Such  have  we,  but  unvaried  in  its  style; 
No  tales  of  Runagates  fresh  landed,  whence 
And  wherefore  fugitive  or  on  what  pretence; 
Of  feasts,  or  scandal,  eddjing  like  the  wind 
Most  restlessly  alive  when  most  confined. 
Ask  not  of  me,  whose  tongue  can  best  appease 
The  mighty  tumults  of  the  House  of  Keys; 
The  last  year's  cup  whose  Ram  or  Heifer  gained. 
What  slopes  are  planted,  or  what  mosses  drained: 
An  eye  of  fancy  only  can  I  cast 
On  that  proud  pageant  now  at  hand  or  past, 
When  full  five  hundred  boats  in  trim  array, 
With  nets  and  sails  outspread  and  streamers  gay, 
And  chanted  hymns  and  stiller  voice  of  prayer, 
For  the  old  Manx-harvest  to  the  Deep  repair, 
Soon  as  the  herring-shoals  at  distance  shine 
Like  beds  of  moonlight  shifting  on  the  brine. 

Mona  from  our  Abode  is  daily  seen, 
But  with  a  wilderness  of  waves  between; 
[  222  ] 


EPISTLE 

And  by  conjecture  only  can  we  speak 

Of  aught  transacted  there  in  bay  or  creek; 

No  tidings  reach  us  thence  from  town  or  field. 

Only  faint  news  her  mountain  sunbeams  yield, 

And  some  we  gather  from  the  misty  air, 

And  some  the  hovering  clouds,  our  telegraph,  declare 

But  these  poetic  mysteries  I  withhold; 

For  Fancy  hath  her  fits  both  hot  and  cold, 

And  should  the  colder  fit  with  You  be  on 

When  You  might  read,  my  credit  would  be  gone. 

Let  more  substantial  themes  the  pen  engage. 
And  nearer  interests  culled  from  the  opening  stage 
Of  our  migration.  —  Ere  the  welcome  dawn 
Had  from  the  east  her  silver  star  withdrawn, 
The  Wain  stood  ready,  at  our  Cottage-door, 
Thoughtfully  freighted  with  a  various  store; 
And  long  or  ere  the  uprising  of  the  Sun 
O'er  dew-damped  dust  our  journey  was  begun, 
A  needful  journey,  under  favouring  skies, 
Through  peopled  Vales;  yet  something  in  the  guise 
Of  those  old  Patriarchs  when  from  well  to  well 
They  roamed  through  Wastes  where  now  the  tenteJ 
Arabs  dwell. 

Say  first,  to  whom  did  we  the  charge  confide. 
Who  promptly  undertook  the  Wain  to  guide 
Up  many  a  sharply-twining  road  and  down, 
f  223  1 


EPISTLE 

And  over  many  a  wide  hill's  craggy  crown, 
Through  the  quick  turns  of  many  a  liollow  nook, 
And  the  rough  bed  of  many  an  unbridged  brook? 
A  blooming  Lass  —  who  in  her  better  hand 
Bore  a  light  switch,  her  sceptre  of  command 
When,  yet  a  slender  Girl,  she  often  led, 
Skilful  and  bold,  the  horse  and  burthened  sled  ^* 
From  the  peat-yielding  Moss  on  Gowdar's  head. 
\Yhat  could  go  wTong  with  such  a  Charioteer 
For  goods  and  chattels,  or  those  Infants  dear, 
A  Pair  who  smilingly  sate  side  by  side, 
Our  hope  confirming  that  the  salt-sea  tide 
Whose  free  embraces  we  were  bound  to  seek. 
Would  their  lost  strength  restore  and  freshen  the 

pale  cheek? 
Such  hope  did  either  Parent  entertain 
Pacing  behind  along  the  silent  lane. 

Blithe  hopes  and  happy  musings  soon  took  flight, 
For  lo !  an  uncouth  melancholy  sight  — 
On  a  green  bank  a  creature  stood  forlorn 
Just  half  protruded  to  the  light  of  morn. 
Its  hinder  part  concealed  by  hedge-row  thorn. 
The  Figure  called  to  mind  a  beast  of  prey 
Stri[)t  of  its  frightful  powers  by  slow  decay, 
And,  though  no  longer  uj^on  rapine  bent, 
Dim  memory  keeping  of  its  old  intent. 
[  ^2^24  ] 


EPISTLE 

We  started,  looked  again  with  anxious  eyes, 
And  in  that  griesly  object  recognise 
The  Curate's  Dog  —  his  long-tried  friend,  for  they. 
As  well  we  knew,  together  had  grown  grey. 
The  Master  died,  his  drooping  servant's  grief 
Found  at  the  Widow's  feet  some  sad  relief; 
Yet  still  he  lived  in  pining  discontent, 
Sadness  which  no  indulgence  could  prevent ; 
Hence  whole  day  wanderings,  broken  nightly  sleeps 
And  lonesome  watch  that  out  of  doors  he  keeps; 
Not  oftentimes,  I  trust,  as  we,  poor  brute! 
Espied  him  on  his  legs  sustained,  blank,  mute, 
And  of  all  visible  motion  destitute. 
So  that  the  very  heaving  of  his  breath 
Seemed  stopt,  though  by  some  other  power  than  death. 
Long  as  we  gazed  upon  the  form  and  face, 
A  mild  domestic  pity  kept  its  place, 
Unscared  by  thronging  fancies  of  strange  hue 
That  haunted  us  in  spite  of  what  we  knew. 
Even  now  I  sometimes  think  of  him  as  lost 
In  second-sight  appearances,  or  crost 
By  spectral  shapes  of  guilt,  or  to  the  ground. 
On  which  he  stood,  by  spells  unnatural  bound. 
Like  a  gaunt  shaggy  Porter  forced  to  wait 
In  days  of  old  romance  at  Archimago's  gate. 
Advancing  Summer,  Nature's  law  fulfilled, 
f  225  1 


EPISTLE 

The  choristers  in  every  grove  had  stilled; 
But  we,  we  lacked  not  music  of  our  own, 
For  lightsome  Fanny  had  thus  early  thrown. 
Mid  the  gay  prattle  of  those  infant  tongues, 
Some  notes  prelusive,  from  the  round  of  songs 
With  which,  more  zealous  than  the  liveliest  bird 
That  in  wild  Arden's  brakes  was  ever  heard. 
Her  work  and  her  work's  partners  she  can  cheer. 
The  whole  day  long,  and  all  days  of  the  year. 

Thus  gladdened  from  our  own  dear  Vale  we  pass 
And  soon  approach  Diana's  Looking-glass! 
To  Loughrigg-tarn,  round  clear  and  bright  as  heaven, 
Such  name  Italian  fancy  would  have  given, 
Ere  on  its  banks  the  few  grey  cabins  rose 
That  yet  disturb  not  its  concealed  repose 
More  than  the  feeblest  wind  that  idly  blows. 

Ah,  Beaumont!  when  an  opening  in  the  road 
Stopped  me  at  once  by  charm  of  what  it  showed. 
The  encircling  region  vividly  exprest 
Within  the  mirror's  depth,  a  world  at  rest  — 
Sky  streaked  with  purple,  grove  and  craggy  bield,^^ 
And  the  smooth  green  of  many  a  pendent  field. 
And,  quieted  and  soothed,  a  torrent  small, 
A  little  daring  would-be  waterfall. 
One  chimney  smoking  and  its  azure  wreath, 
Associate  all  in  the  calm  Pool  beneath, 
[  220  1 


EPISTLE 

With  here  and  there  a  faint  imperfect  gleam 

Of  water-lilies  veiled  in  misty  steam  — 

What  wonder  at  this  hour  of  stillness  deep, 

A  shadowy  link  'tween  wakefulness  and  sleep, 

When  Nature's  self,  amid  such  blending,  seems 

To  render  visible  her  own  soft  dreams, 

If,  mixed  with  what  appeared  of  rock,  lawn,  wood. 

Fondly  embosomed  in  the  tranquil  flood, 

A  glimpse  I  caught  of  that  Abode,  by  Thee 

Designed  to  rise  in  humble  privacy, 

A  lowly  Dwelling,  here  to  be  outspread. 

Like  a  small  Hamlet,  with  its  bashful  head 

Half  hid  in  native  trees.  Alas,  't  is  not, 

Nor  ever  was ;  I  sighed,  and  left  the  spot 

Unconscious  of  its  own  untoward  lot, 

And  thought  in  silence,  with  regret  too  keen. 

Of  unexperienced  joys  that  might  have  been; 

Of  neighbourhood  and  intermingling  arts. 

And  golden  summer  days  uniting  cheerful  hearts. 

But  time,  irrevocable  time,  is  flown. 

And  let  us  utter  thanks  for  blessings  sown 

And  reaped  —  what  hath  been,  and  what  is,  our  own, 

Not  far  we  travelled  ere  a  shout  of  glee. 
Startling  us  all,  dispersed  my  reverie; 
Such  shout  as  many  a  sportive  echo  meeting 
Oft-times  from  Alpine  chalets  sends  a  greeting. 
[  227  1 


EPISTLE 

Whence  the  blithe  hail?  behold  a  Peasant  stand 

On  high,  a  kerchief  waving  in  her  hand! 

Not  unexpectant  that  by  early  day 

Our  little  Band  would  thrid  this  mountain  way. 

Before  her  cottage  on  the  bright  hillside 

She  hath  advanced  with  hope  to  be  descried. 

Right  gladly  answering  signals  we  displayed, 

Moving  along  a  tract  of  morning  shade. 

And  vocal  wishes  sent  of  like  good  will 

To  our  kind  Friend  high  on  the  sunny  hill  — 

Luminous  region,  fair  as  if  the  prime 

Were  tempting  all  astir  to  look  aloft  or  climb; 

Only  the  centre  of  the  shining  cot 

With  door  left  open  makes  a  gloomy  spot, 

Emblem  of  those  dark  corners  sometimes  found 

Within  the  happiest  breast  on  earthly  ground. 

Rich  prospect  left  behind  of  stream  and  vale. 
And  mountain-tops,  a  barren  ridge  we  scale; 
Descend,  and  reach,  in  Yewdale's  depths,  a  plain 
With  haycocks  studded,  striped  with  yellowing  grain  — 
An  area  level  as  a  Lake  and  spread 
Under  a  rock  too  steep  for  man  to  tread. 
Where  sheltered  from  the  north  and  bleak  northwest 
Aloft  the  Raven  hangs  a  visible  nest. 
Fearless  of  all  assaults  that  would  her  brood  molest. 
Hot  sunbeams  fill  the  steaming  vale;  but  hark, 
[  228  ] 


EPISTLE 

At  our  approach,  a  jealous  watch-dog's  bark. 
Noise  that  brings  forth  no  hveried  Page  of  state. 
But  the  whole  household,  that  our  coming  wait. 
With  Young  and  Old  warm  greetings  we  exchange^ 
And  jocund  smiles,  and  toward  the  lowly  Grange 
Press  forward  by  the  teasing  dogs  unscared. 
Entering,  we  find  the  morning  meal  prepared: 
So  down  we  sit,  though  not  till  each  had  cast 
Pleased  looks  around  the  delicate  repast  — 
Rich  cream,  and  snow-white  eggs  fresh  from  the 

nest. 
With  amber  honey  from  the  mountain's  breast; 
Strawberries  from  lane  or  woodland,  offering  ^dld 
Of  children's  industry,  in  hillocks  piled; 
Cakes  for  the  nonce,  and  butter  fit  to  lie 
Upon  a  lordly  dish;  frank  hospitality 
Where  simple  art  with  bounteous  Nature  vied. 
And  cottage  comfort  shunned  not  seemly  pride. 

Kind  Hostess !  Handmaid  also  of  the  feast. 
If  thou  be  lovelier  than  the  kindling  East, 
Words  by  thy  presence  unrestrained  may  speak 
Of  a  perpetual  dawn  from  brow  and  cheek 
Instinct  with  light  whose  sweetest  promise  lies, 
Never  retiring,  in  thy  large  dark  ej'es. 
Dark  but  to  every  gentle  feeling  true. 
As  if  their  lustre  flowed  from  ether's  purest  blue. 
1  229  1 


EPISTLE 

Let  me  not  ask  what  tears  may  have  been  wept 
By  those  bright  eyes,  what  weary  vigils  kept, 
Beside  that  hearth  what  sighs  may  have  been  heaved 
For  wounds  inflicted,  nor  what  toil  relieved 
By  fortitude  and  patience,  and  the  grace 
Of  heaven  in  pity  visiting  the  place. 
Not  unadvisedly  those  secret  springs 
I  leave  unsearched:  enough  that  memory  clings, 
Here  as  elsewhere,  to  notices  that  make 
Their  own  significance  for  hearts  awake. 
To  rural  incidents,  whose  genial  powers 
Filled  with  delight  three  summer  morning  hours. 

More  could  my  pen  report  of  grave  or  gay 
That  through  our  gipsy  travel  cheered  the  way; 
But,  bursting  forth  above  the  waves,  the  Sun 
Laughs  at  my  pains,  and  seems  to  say,  "Be  done." 
Yet,  Beaumont,  thou  wilt  not,  I  trust,  reprove 
This  humble  offering  made  by  Truth  to  Love, 
Nor  chide  the  Muse  that  stooped  to  break  a  spell 
Which  might  have  else  been  on  me  yet :  — 

Farewell.^^ 


230 


UPON  PERUSING  THE  FOREGOING  EPIS- 
TLE THIRTY  YEARS  AFTER  ITS  COM- 
POSITION 

1841     1842 

Soon  did  the  Almighty  Giver  of  all  rest 

Take  those  dear  young  Ones  to  a  fearless  nest; 

And  in  Death's  arras  has  long  reposed  the  Friend 

For  whom  this  simple  Register  was  penned. 

Thanks  to  the  moth  that  spared  it  for  our  eyes; 

And  Strangers  even  the  slighted  Scroll  may  prize, 

Moved  by  the  touch  of  kindred  sympathies. 

For  —  save  the  calm,  repentance  sheds  o'er  strife 

Raised  by  remembrances  of  misused  life. 

The  light  from  past  endeavours  purely  willed 

And  by  Heaven's  favour  happily  fulfilled; 

Save  hope  that  we,  yet  bound  to  Earth,  may  share 

The  joys  of  the  Departed  —  what  so  fair 

As  blameless  pleasure,  not  without  some  tears. 

Reviewed  through  Love's  transparent  veil  of  years? 


231 


UPON    THE    SIGHT    OF    A    BEAUTIFUL 
PICTURE 

PAINTED  BY   SIR    G.    H.    BEAUMONT,    BART. 

1811       1815 

This  was  written  when  we  dwelt  in  the  Parsonage  at  Gras- 
mere.  The  principal  features  of  the  picture  are  Bredon  Hill 
and  Cloud  Hill  near  Coleorton.  I  shall  never  forget  the  happy 
feeling  with  which  my  heart  was  filled  when  I  was  impelled 
to  compose  this  Sonnet.  We  resided  only  two  j'cars  in  this 
house;  and  during  the  last  half  of  the  time,  which  was  after 
this  poem  had  been  written,  we  lost  our  two  children,  Thomas 
and  Catharine.  Our  sorrow  upon  these  events  often  brought 
it  to  my  mind,  and  cast  me  upon  the  support  to  which  the  last 
line  of  it  gives  expression  — 

"The  appropriate  calm  of  blost  eternity. " 
It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  we  still  possess  the  Picture. 

Praised  be  the  Art  whose  subtle  power  could  stay 
Yon  cloud,  and  fix  it  in  that  glorious  shape; 
Nor  would  permit  the  thin  smoke  to  escape, 
Nor  those  bright  sunbeams  to  forsake  the  day; 
Which  stopped  that  band  of  travellers  on  their  way. 
Ere  they  were  lost  within  the  shady  wood; 
And  showed  the  Bark  upon  the  glassy  flood 
For  ever  anchored  in  her  sheltering  bay. 
I  232  1 


LINES 

Soul-soothing  Art !  whom  Morning,  Noontide,  Even, 
Do  serve  with  all  their  changeful  pageantry; 
Thou,  with  ambition  modest  yet  subhme. 
Here,  for  the  sight  of  mortal  man,  hast  given 
To  one  brief  moment  caught  from  fleeting  time 
The  appropriate  calm  of  blest  eternity. 


[  233  ] 


INSCRIPTIONS 


IN    THE    GROUNDS    OF    COLEORTON,    THE    SEAT    OP    SIR 
GEORGE   BEAUMONT,    BART.,    LEICESTERSHIRE 

1808      1815 

In  the  grounds  of  Coleorton  these  verses  are  engraved  on  a 
stone  placed  near  the  Tree,  which  was  thriving  and  spreading 
when  I  saw  it  in  the  Summer  of  1841. 

The  embowering  rose,  the  acacia,  and  the  pine, 
Will  not  unwillingly  their  place  resign; 
If  but  the  Cedar  thrive  that  near  them  stands. 
Planted  by  Beaumont's  and  by  Wordsworth's  hands. 
One  wooed  the  silent  Art  with  studious  pains : 
These  groves  have  heard  the  Other's  pensive  strains; 
Devoted  thus,  their  spirits  did  unite 
By  interchange  of  knowledge  and  delight. 
May  Nature's  kindliest  powers  sustain  the  Tree, 
And  Love  protect  it  from  all  injury! 
And  when  its  potent  branches,  wide  outthrown. 
Darken  the  brow  of  this  memorial  Stone, 
Here  may  some  Painter  sit  in  future  days. 
Some  future  Poet  meditate  his  lays; 
Not  mindless  of  that  distant  age  renowned 
[  234  ] 


INSCRIPTIONS 

When  Inspiration  hovered  o'er  this  ground, 

The  haunt  of  him  who  sang  how  spear  and  shield 

In  civil  conflict  met  on  Bos  worth-field ; 

And  of  that  famous  Youth,  full  soon  removed 

From  earth,  perhaps  by  Shakspeare's  self  approved, 

Fletcher's  Associate,  Jonson's  Friend  beloved. 

11 

IN   A   GARDEN   OF   THE    SAME 

1811     1815 

This  Niche  is  in  the  sandstone-rock  in  the  winter-garden 
at  Coleorton,  which  garden,  as  has  been  elsewhere  said,  was 
made  under  our  direction  out  of  an  old  unsightly  quarry. 
While  the  labourers  were  at  work,  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  my 
Sister,  and  I  used  to  amuse  ourselves  occasionally  in  scooping 
this  seat  out  of  the  soft  stone.  It  is  of  the  size,  with  something 
of  the  appearance,  of  a  Stall  in  a  Cathedral.  This  inscription 
is  not  engraven,  as  the  former  and  the  two  following  are,  in 
the  grounds. 

Oft  is  the  medal  faithful  to  its  trust 
When  temples,  columns,  towers,  are  laid  in  dust; 
And  't  is  a  common  ordinance  of  fate 
That  things  obscure  and  small  outlive  the  great : 
Hence,  when  yon  mansion  and  the  flowery  trim 
Of  this  fair  garden,  and  its  alleys  dim. 
And  all  its  stately  trees,  are  passed  away, 
This  little  Niche,  unconscious  of  decay, 
[  235  1 


INSCRIPTIONS 

Perchance  may  still  survive.  And  be  it  known 
That  it  was  scooped  within  the  living  stone,  — 
Not  by  the  sluggish  and  ungrateful  pains 
Of  labourer  plodding  for  his  daily  gains, 
But  by  an  industry  that  wrought  in  love; 
With  help  from  female  hands,  that  proudly  strove 
To  aid  the  work,  what  time  these  walks  and  bowers 
Were  shaped  to  cheer  dark  Winter's  lonely  hours. 


Ill 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  SIR  GEORGE  BEAUMONT, 
BART.,  AND  IN  HIS  NAME,  FOR  AN  URN,  PLACED  BY  HIM 
AT  THE  TERMINATION  OF  A  NEWLY-PLANTED  AVENUE, 
IN   THE   SAME   GROUNDS 

1808       1815 

Ye  Lime-trees,  ranged  before  this  hallowed  Urn, 

Shoot  forth  with  lively  power  at  Spring's  return; 

And  be  not  slow  a  stately  groA\'th  to  rear 

Of  pillars,  branching  off  from  year  to  year. 

Till  they  have  learned  to  frame  a  darksome  aisle;  — 

That  may  recall  to  mind  that  awful  Pile 

Where  Reynolds,  'mid  our  country's  noblest  dead. 

In  the  last  sanctity  of  fame  is  laid. 

—  There,  though  by  right  the  excelling  Painter  sleep 

Where  Death  and  Glory  a  joint  sabbath  keep, 

[  2;](5  1 


INSCRIPTIONS 

Yet  not  the  less  his  Spirit  would  hold  dear 
Self-hidden  praise,  and  Friendship's  private  tear: 
Hence,  on  my  patrimonial  grounds,  have  I 
Raised  this  frail  tribute  to  his  memory; 
From  youth  a  zealous  follower  of  the  Art 
That  he  professed;  attached  to  him  in  heart; 
Admiring,  loving,  and  with  grief  and  pride 
Feeling  what  England  lost  when  Reynolds  died. 


IV 

FOR   A    SEAT    IN   THE   GROVES   OF   COLEORTON 
1811       1815 

Beneath  yon  eastern  ridge,  the  craggy  bound, 
Rugged  and  high,  of  Charnwood's  forest  ground 
Stand  yet,  but.  Stranger!  hidden  from  thy  view. 
The  ivied  Ruins  of  forlorn  Grace  Dieu; 
Erst  a  religious  House,  which  day  and  night 
With  hymns  resounded,  and  the  chanted  rite: 
And  when  those  rites  had  ceased,  the  Spot  gave 

birth 
To  honourable  Men  of  various  worth: 
There,  on  the  margin  of  a  streamlet  wild, 
Did  Francis  Beaumont  sport,  an  eager  child; 
There,  under  shadow  of  the  neighbouring  rocks, 
f  237  1 


INSCRIPTIONS 

Sang  youthful  talcs  of  shepherds  and  their  flocks; 
Unconscious  prelude  to  heroic  themes, 
Heart-breaking  tears,  and  melancholy  dreams 
Of  slighted  love,  and  scorn,  and  jealous  rage, 
With  which  his  genius  shook  the  buskined  stage. 
Communities  are  lost,  and  Empires  die. 
And  things  of  holy  use  unhallowed  lie; 
They  perish ;  —  but  the  Intellect  can  raise, 
From  airy  words  alone,  a  Pile  that  ne'er  decays. 


238 


SONG    FOR    THE    SPINNING    WHEEL 

FOUNDED  UPON  A  BELIEF  PREVALENT  AMONG   THE   PAS- 
TORAL   VALES   OF   WESTMORELAND 

1812     1820 

The  belief  on  which  this  is  founded  I  have  often  heard 
expressed  by  an  old  neighbour  of  Grasmere. 

Swiftly  turn  the  murmuring  wheel ! 
Night  has  brought  the  welcome  hour, 
When  the  weary  fingers  feel 
Help,  as  if  from  faery  power; 
Dewy  night  o'ershades  the  ground; 
Turn  the  swift  wheel  round  and  round! 

Now,  beneath  the  starry  sky, 
Couch  the  widely-scattered  sheep;  — 
Ply  the  pleasant  labour,  ply! 
For  the  spindle,  while  they  sleep, 
Runs  with  speed  more  smooth  and  fine, 
Gathering  up  a  trustier  line. 

Short-lived  likings  may  be  bred 
By  a  glance  from  fickle  eyes; 


239 


SONG   FOR   THE    SPINNING   WHEEL 

But  true  love  is  like  the  thread 
Which  the  kindly  wool  supplies. 
When  the  flocks  are  all  at  rest 
Sleeping  on  the  mountain's  breast. 


I  240  ] 


COIVIPOSED  ON  THE  EVE  OF  THE  MAR- 
RIAGE OF  A  FRIEND  IN  THE  VALE  OF 
GRASMERE 

1812     1815 

What  need  of  clamorous  bells,  or  ribands  gay. 

These  humble  nuptials  to  proclaim  or  grace? 

Angels  of  love,  look  down  upon  the  place; 

Shed  on  the  chosen  vale  a  sun-bright  day! 

Yet  no  proud  gladness  would  the  Bride  display 

Even  for  such  promise :  —  serious  is  her  face. 

Modest  her  mien ;  and  she,  whose  thoughts  keep  pace 

With  gentleness,  in  that  becoming  way 

Will  thank  you.   Faultless  does  the  Maid  appear; 

No  disproportion  in  her  soul,  no  strife: 

But,  when  the  closer  view  of  wedded  life 

Hath  shown  that  nothing  human  can  be  clear 

From  frailty,  for  that  insight  may  the  Wife 

To  her  indulgent  Lord  become  more  dear. 


241 


WATER-FOWL 

OBSERVED    FREQUENTLY    OVER    THE    LAKES    OF    RYDAL 
AND    GRASMERE 

1812       1827 

"Let  me  be  allowed  the  aid  of  verse  to  describe  the  evolu- 
tions which  these  visitants  sonjetimes  perform,  on  a  fine  day 
towards  the  close  of  winter."  —  Extract  from  the  Author's 
Boole  on  the  Lakes. 

Mark  how  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  flood, 
With  grace  of  motion  that  might  scarcely  seem 
Inferior  to  angelical,  prolong 
Their  curious  pastime !  shaping  in  mid  air 
(And  sometimes  with  ambitious  wing  that  soars 
High  as  the  level  of  the  mountain-tops) 
A  circuit  ampler  than  the  lake  beneath  — 
Their  own  domain;  but  ever,  while  intent 
On  tracing  and  retracing  that  large  round. 
Their  jubilant  activity  evolves 
Hundreds  of  curves  and  circlets,  to  and  fro, 
Upward  and  downward,  progress  intricate 
Yet  unperplexed,  as  if  one  spirit  swayed 
Their  indefatigable  flight.    'T  is  done  — 
Ten  limes,  or  more,  I  fancied  it  had  ceased; 
But  lo!  the  vanished  company  again 
I  242  1 


WATER-FOWL 

Ascending;  they  approach  —  I  hear  their  wings, 

Faint,  faint  at  first;  and  then  an  eager  sound, 

Past  in  a  moment  —  and  as  faint  again ! 

They  tempt  the  sun  to  sport  amid  their  plumes; 

They  tempt  the  water,  or  the  gleaming  ice. 

To  show  them  a  fair  image;  't  is  themselves. 

Their  own  fair  forms,  upon  the  glimmering  plain. 

Painted  more  soft  and  fair  as  they  descend 

Almost  to  touch ;  —  then  up  again  aloft, 

Up  with  a  sally  and  a  flash  of  speed. 

As  if  they  scorned  both  resting-place  and  rest ! 


[  243  ] 


VIEW  FROM  THE  TOP  OF  BLACK  COMB" 

1813     1815 

Mrs.  Wordswortli  and  I,  as  mentioned  in  the  "Epistle  to 
Sir  G.  Beaumont,"  lived  some  time  under  its  shadow. 

This  Height  a  ministering  Angel  might  select: 
For  from  the  summit  of  Black  Comb  (dread  name 
Derived  from  clouds  and  storms !)  the  amplest  range 
Of  unobstructed  prospect  may  be  seen 
That  British  ground  commands:  —  low  dusty  tracts, 
Where  Trent  is  nursed,  far  southward!  Cambrian  hills 
To  the  southwest,  a  multitudinous  show; 
And,  in  a  line  of  eyesight  linked  with  these, 
The  hoary  peaks  of  Scotland  that  give  birth 
To  Tiviot's  stream,  to  Annan,  Tweed,  and  Clyde:  — 
Crowding  the  quarter  whence  the  sun  comes  forth 
Gigantic  mountains  rough  with  crags;  beneath, 
Right  at  tlie  imperial  station's  western  base 
Main  ocean,  breaking  audibly,  and  stretched 
Far  into  silent  regions  blue  and  pale;  — 
And  visibly  engirding  Mona's  Isle 
That,  as  we  left  the  plain,  before  our  sight 
Stood  like  a  lofty  mount,  uplifting  slowly 
(Above  the  convex  of  the  watery  globe) 
f  244  1 


VIEW  FROM  THE  TOP  OF   BLACK  COMB 

Into  clear  view  the  cultured  fields  that  streak 

Her  habitable  shores,  but  now  appears 

A  dwindled  object,  and  submits  to  lie 

At  the  spectator's  feet.  —  Yon  azure  ridge, 

Is  it  a  perishable  cloud?   Or  there 

Do  we  behold  the  line  of  Erin's  coast? 

Land  sometimes  by  the  roving  shepherd-swain 

(Like  the  bright  confines  of  another  world) 

Not  doubtfully  perceived.  —  Look  homeward  now! 

In  depth,  in  height,  in  circuit,  how  serene 

The  spectacle,  how  pure!  —  Of  Nature's  works, 

In  earth,  and  air,  and  earth-embracing  sea, 

A  revelation  infinite  it  seems; 

Display  august  of  man's  inheritance, 

Of  Britain's  calm  felicity  and  power! 


245 


WRITTEN  WITH  A  SLATE  PENCIL  ON  A 
STONE,  ON  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  MOUN- 
TAIN OF  BLACK  COMB 

1813     1815 

The  circumstance  alluded  to  at  the  conclusion  of  these 
verses  was  told  me  by  Dr.  Satterthwaite,  who  was  Incumbent 
of  Bootle,  a  small  town  at  the  foot  of  Black  Comb.  He  had 
the  particulars  from  one  of  the  engineers  who  was  employed 
in  making  trigonometrical  surveys  of  that  region. 

Stay,  bold  Adventurer;  rest  awhile  thy  limbs 
On  this  commodious  Seat!  for  much  remains 
Of  hard  ascent  before  thou  reach  the  top 
Of  this  huge  Eminence,  —  from  blackness  named, 
And,  to  far-travelled  storms  of  sea  and  land, 
A  favourite  spot  of  tournament  and  war! 
But  thee  may  no  such  boisterous  visitants 
Molest;  may  gentle  breezes  fan  thy  brow; 
And  neither  cloud  conceal,  nor  misty  air 
Bedim,  the  grand  terraqueous  spectacle. 
From  centre  to  circumference,  unveiled! 
Know,  if  thou  grudge  not  to  prolong  thy  rest, 
That  on  the  summit  whither  thou  art  bound, 
A  geographic  Labourer  jntched  his  tent. 
With  books  supplied  and  instruments  of  art, 
-       f  2-1.6  1 


LINES 

To  measure  height  and  distance;  lonely  task. 

Week  after  week  pursued !  —  To  him  was  given 

Full  many  a  glimpse  (but  sparingly  bestowed 

On  timid  man)  of  Nature's  processes 

Upon  the  exalted  hills.    He  made  report 

That  once,  while  there  he  plied  his  studious  work 

Within  that  canvas  Dwelling,  colours,  lines, 

i.\nd  the  whole  surface  of  the  outspread  map. 

Became  invisible:  for  all  around 

Had    darkness    fallen  —  unthreatened,    unpro- 

claimed  — 
As  if  the  golden  day  itself  had  been 
Extinguished  in  a  moment;  total  gloom. 
In  which  he  sate  alone,  with  unclosed  eyes, 
Upon  the  blinded  mountain's  silent  top ! 


247  ] 


NOVEMBER  1813 


1813     1815 


Now  that  all  hearts  are  glad,  all  faces  bright, 

Our  aged  Sovereign  sits,  to  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  states  and  kingdoms,  to  their  joy  or  woe. 

Insensible.    He  sits  deprived  of  sight. 

And  lamentably  wrapt  in  twofold  night. 

Whom  no  weak  hopes  deceived;  whose  mind  ensued. 

Through  perilous  war,  with  regal  fortitude, 

Peace  that  should  claim  respect  from  lawless  Might. 

Dread  King  of  Kings,  vouchsafe  a  ray  divine 

To  his  forlorn  condition !  let  Thy  grace 

Upon  his  inner  soul  in  mercy  shine; 

Permit  his  heart  to  kindle,  and  to  embrace 

(Though  it  were  only  for  a  moment's  space) 

The  triumphs  of  this  hour;  for  they  are  Thine! 


248 


LAODAMIA 

1814     1815 

Written  at  Rydal  Mount.  The  incident  of  the  trees  growing 
and  withering  put  the  subject  into  my  thoughts,  and  I  wrote 
with  the  hope  of  giving  it  a  loftier  tone  than,  so  far  as  I  know, 
has  been  given  to  it  by  any  of  the  Ancients  who  have  treated 
of  it.  It  cost  me  more  trouble  than  almost  anything  of  equal 
length  I  have  ever  written. 

"With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 
Vows  have  I  made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired; 
And  from  the  infernal  Gods,  'mid  shades  forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  Lord  have  I  required: 
Celestial  pity  I  again  implore;  — 
Restore  him  to  my  sight  —  great  Jove,  restore!" 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  Suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a  cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens  —  and  her  eye  expands; 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows; 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

O  terror!  what  hath  she  perceived.f^  —  O  joy! 
What  doth  she  look  on?  —  whom  doth  she  behold? 
Her  Hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy? 
[  249  ] 


LAODAMIA 

His  vital  presence?  his  corporeal  mould? 
It  is  —  if  sense  deceive  her  not  —  't  is  He ! 
And  a  God  leads  him,  winged  Mercury! 

Mild  Hermes  spake  —  and  touched  her  with  his  wand 
That  calms  all  fear;  "Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy 

prayer, 
Laodamia!  that  at  Jove's  command 
Thy  Husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air: 
He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours'  space; 
Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face ! " 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  Queen  her  Lord  to 

clasp; 
Again  that  consummation  she  essayed; 
But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 
As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 
The  Phantom  parts  —  but  parts  to  reunite, 
And  reassume  his  place  before  her  sight. 

' Protesilaus,  lo!  thy  guide  is  gone! 
Confirm,  I  pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice: 
This  is  our  palace,  —  yonder  is  thy  throne; 
Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon;  and  blest  a  sad  abode." 
f  250  1 


LAODAMIA 

"  Great  Jove,  Laodamia !  doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect :  —  Spectre  though  I  be, 
I  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive; 
But  in  reward  of  thy  fidehty. 
And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain; 
For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

"Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 
That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 
Should  die;  but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold: 
A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand; 
And  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain; 
A  self -de  voted  chief  —  by  Hector  slain." 

"Supreme  of  Heroes  —  bravest,  noblest,  best! 
Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more. 
Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 
By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore; 
Thou  f ound'st  —  and  I  forgive  thee  —  here  thou  art  — 
A  nobler  counsellor  than  mj^  poor  heart. 

"But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 
Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave; 
And  be,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 
Thou  should'st  elude  the  malice  of  the  grave: 
Redundant  are  thj'  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 
As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 
[  251  1 


LAODAMIA 

"No  Spectre  greets  me,  —  no  vain  Shadow  this; 
Come,  blooming  Hero,  place  thee  by  my  side ! 
Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day,  a  second  time  thy  bride!" 
Jove  frowned  in  heaven :  the  conscious  Parcse  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

"This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past: 
Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even  if  the  joys 
Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 
And  surely  as  they  vanish.   Earth  destroys 
Those  raptures  duly  —  Erebus  disdains: 
Calm  pleasures  there  abide  —  majestic  pains. 

"Be  taught,  O  faithful  Consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion :  for  the  Gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul; 

.  A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 
Thy  transports  moderate;  and  meekly  mourn 
When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn  — " 

"Ah,  wherefore?  —  Did  not  Hercules  by  force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  Monster  of  the  tomb 
Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse. 
Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom? 
Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years. 
And  iEson  stood  a  youth  'mid  youthful  peers. 
[  252  ] 


LAODAMIA 

"The  Gods  to  us  are  merciful  —  and  they 
Yet  further  may  relent :  for  mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star. 
Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 
And  though  his  favourite  seat  be  feeble  woman's 
breast. 

"But  if  thou  goest,  I  follow  — "  "Peace!"  he  said, — 
She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and  cheered; 
The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled; 
In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien  appeared 
Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace. 
Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  Spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure; 
No  fears  to  beat  away  —  no  strife  to  heal  — 
The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure; 
Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous  —  imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty;  more  pellucid  streams, 
An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air. 
And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams; 
f  253  1 


LAODAMIA 

Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  Soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 
That  privilege  by  virtue.  —  "111,"  said  he, 
"The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 
Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 
Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight, 
While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and  night; 

"And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my  eyes 
(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 
Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports,  —  or,  seated  in  the  tent, 
Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained; 
What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained. 

"The  wished-for  wind  was  given:  —  I  then  revolved 
The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea; 
And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 
Tliat,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 
The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand,  — 
Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

"Yet  bitter,  oft-times  bitter,  was  the  pang 
When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  beloved  Wife! 
:  [  254  ] 


LAODAMIA 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang, 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life,  — 

The   paths   which   we  had  trod  —  these  fountains, 

flowers. 
My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 

"  But  should  suspense  permit  the  Foe  to  cry, 
*  Behold  they  tremble!  —  haughty  their  array. 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die?' 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away: 
Old  frailties  then  recurred :  —  but  lofty  thought. 
In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

"And  Thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 
In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow; 
I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 
Our  blest  reunion  in  the  shades  below. 
The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathised; 
Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnised. 

"  Learn,  by  a  mortal  yearning,  to  ascend  — 
Seeking  a  higher  object.    Love  was  given. 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end; 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven  — 
That  self  might  be  annulled:  her  bondage  prove 

The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to  love." 

[  255  ] 


LAODAMIA 

Aloud  she  shrieked!  for  Hermes  reappears! 

Round  the  dear  Shade  she  would  have  clung  —  't  is 

vain : 
The  hours  are  past  —  too  brief  had  they  been  j^ears; 
And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain: 
Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day. 
He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 
And  on  the  palace-floor  a  lifeless  corpse  She  lay. 

Thus,  all  in  vain  exhorted  and  reproved. 
She  perished;  and,  as  for  a  wilful  crime, 
By  the  just  Gods  whom  no  weak  pity  moved, 
Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time, 
Apart  from  happy  Ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

—  Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due; 
And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone, 
As  fondly  he  believes.  —  Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 
A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew  ^^ 
From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died; 
And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 
That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 
The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight; 
A  constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight! 
f  256  1 


DION 

(see  Plutarch) 

1814     1820 

This  poem  was  first  introduced  by  a  stanza  that  I  have 
since  transferred  to  the  Notes,  for  reasons  there  given,  and 
I  cannot  comply  with  the  request  expressed  by  some  of  my 
friends  that  the  rejected  stanza  should  be  restored.  I  hope 
they  will  be  content  if  it  be,  hereafter,  immediately  attached 
to  the  poem,  instead  of  its  being  degraded  to  a  place  in  the 
Notes.^'' 

I 

Serene,  and  fitted  to  embrace, 
Where'er  he  turned,  a  swan-like  grace 
Of  haughtiness  without  pretence, 
And  to  unfold  a  still  magnificence, 
Was  princely  Dion,  in  the  power 
And  beauty  of  his  happier  hour. 
And  what  pure  homage  then  did  wait 
On  Dion's  virtues,  while  the  lunar  beam 
Of  Plato's  genius,  from  its  lofty  sphere. 
Fell  round  him  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 
Softening  their  inbred  dignity  austere  — 

That  he,  not  too  elate 

With  self-sufficing  solitude, 
[  257  1 


DION 

But  with  majestic  lowliness  endued, 
Might  in  the  universal  bosom  reign, 
And  from  affectionate  observance  gain 
Help,  under  every  change  of  adverse  fate. 

II 

Five  thousand  warriors  —  0  the  rapturous  day! 
Each  crowned  with  flowers,  and  armed  with  spear 

and  shield, 
Or  ruder  weapon  which  their  course  might  yield. 
To  Syracuse  advance  in  bright  array. 
Who  leads  them  on?  —  The  anxious  people  see 
Long-exiled  Dion  marching  at  their  head. 
He  also  crowned  with  flowers  of  Sicily, 
And  in  a  white,  far-beaming  corselet  clad! 
Pure  transport  undisturbed  by  doubt  or  fear 
The  gazers  feel;  and,  rushing  to  the  plain. 
Salute  those  strangers  as  a  holy  train 
Or  blest  procession  (to  the  Immortals  dear) 
That  brought  their  precious  liberty  again. 
Lo!  when  the  gates  are  entered,  on  each  hand, 
Down  the  long  street,  rich  goblets  filled  with  wine 

In  seemly  order  stand. 
On  tables  set,  as  if  for  rites  divine ;  — 
And,  as  the  great  Deliverer  marches  by. 
He  looks  on  festal  ground  with  fruits  bestrewn; 
[  258  ] 


DION 

And  flowers  are  on  his  person  thrown 

In  boundless  prodigahty; 
Nor  doth  the  general  voice  abstain  from  prayer, 
Invoking  Dion's  tutelary  care, 
As  if  a  very  Deity  he  were! 

Ill 

Mourn,  hills  and  groves  of  Attica !  and  mourn 

Ilissus,  bending  o'er  thy  classic  urn! 

Mourn,  and  lament  for  him  whose  spirit  dreads 

Your  once  sweet  memory,  studious  walks  and  shades! 

For  him  who  to  divinity  aspired, 

Not  on  the  breath  of  popular  applause. 

But  through  dependence  on  the  sacred  laws 

Framed  in  the  schools  where  Wisdom  dwelt  retired, 

Intent  to  trace  the  ideal  path  of  right 

(More  fair  than  heaven's  broad  causeway  paved  with 

stars) 
Which  Dion  learned  to  measure  with  sublime  delight ;  — 
But  He  hath  overleaped  the  eternal  bars; 
And,  following  guides  whose  craft  holds  no  consent 
With  aught  that  breathes  the  ethereal  element. 
Hath  stained  the  robes  of  civil  power  with  blood, 
Unjustly  shed,  though  for  the  public  good. 
Whence  doubts  that  came  too  late,  and  wishes  vain, 
Hollow  excuses,  and  triumphant  pain; 
f  259  1 


DION 

And  oft  his  cogitations  sink  as  low 
As,  through  the  abysses  of  a  joyless  heart. 
The  heaviest  plummet  of  despair  can  go  — 
But  whence  that  sudden  check?  that  fearful  start! 
He  hears  an  uncouth  sound  — 
Anon  his  lifted  eyes 
Saw,  at  a  long-drawn  gallery's  dusky  bound, 
A  Shape  of  more  than  mortal  size 
And  hideous  aspect,  stalking  round  and  round; 
A  woman's  garb  the  Phantom  wore. 
And  fiercely  swept  the  marble  floor,  — 
Like  Auster  whirling  to  and  fro. 
His  force  on  Caspian  foam  to  try; 
Or  Boreas  when  he  scours  the  snow 
That  skins  the  plains  of  Thessaly, 
Or  when  aloft  on  Maenalus  he  stops 
His  flight,  'mid  eddying  pine-tree  tops! 

IV 

So,  but  from  toil  less  sign  of  profit  reaping. 
The  sullen  Spectre  to  her  purpose  bowed. 
Sweeping  —  vehemently  sweeping  — 
No  pause  admitted,  no  design  avowed! 
"Avaunt,  inexplicable  Guest!  —  avaunt," 
Exclaimefl  tlie  Chieftain  —  "let  me  rather  see 
The  coronal  that  coiling  vipers  make; 
[  260  1 


DION 

The  torch  that  flames  with  many  a  lurid  flake. 
And  the  long  train  of  doleful  pageantry 
Which  they  behold,  whom  vengeful  Furies  haunt; 
Who,  v/hile  they  struggle  from  the  scourge  to  flee, 
Move  where  the  blasted  soil  is  not  unworn. 
And,  in  their  anguish,  bear  what  other  minds 
have  borne!" 

V 

But  Shapes  that  come  not  at  an  earthly  call, 

Will  not  depart  when  mortal  voices  bid; 

Lords  of  the  visionary  eye  whose  lid. 

Once  raised,  remains  aghast,  and  will  not  fall! 

Ye  Gods,  thought  He,  that  servile  Implement 

Obeys  a  mystical  intent! 

Your  Minister  would  brush  away 

The  spots  that  to  my  soul  adhere; 

But  should  she  labour  night  and  day. 

They  will  not,  cannot  disappear; 

WTience  angry  perturbations,  —  and  that  look 

Which  no  Philosophy  can  brook! 

VI 

Ill-fated  Chief!  there  are  whose  hopes  are  built 
Upon  the  ruins  of  thy  glorious  name; 
Who,  through  the  portal  of  one  moment's  guiltj 
Pursue  thee  with  their  deadly  aim ! 
f  261  1 


DION 

O  matchless  perfidj !  portentous  lust 
Of  monstrous  crime !  —  that  horror-striking  blade, 
Drawn  in  defiance  of  the  Gods,  hath  laid 
The  noble  Syracusan  low  in  dust ! 
Shuddered  the  walls  —  the  marble  city  wept  — 
And  sylvan  places  heaved  a  pensive  sigh; 
But  in  calm  peace  the  appointed  Victim  slept, 
As  he  had  fallen  in  magnanimity; 
Of  spirit  too  capacious  to  require 
That  Destiny  her  course  should  change;  too  just 
To  his  own  native  greatness  to  desire 
That  wretched  boon,  days  lengthened  by  mistrust; 
So  were  the  hopeless  troubles,  that  involved 
The  soul  of  Dion,  instantly  dissolved. 
Released  from  life  and  cares  of  princely  state. 
He  left  this  moral  grafted  on  his  Fate: 
"Him  only  pleasure  leads,  and  peace  attends, 
Him,  only  him,  the  shield  of  Jove  defends. 
Whose  means  are  fair  and  spotless  as  his  ends." 


262 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN 
SCOTLAND 

1814 

In  this  tour,  my  wife  and  her  sister  Sara  were  my  com- 
panions. The  account  of  the  "Brownie's  Cell"  and  the 
Brownies  was  given  me  by  a  man  we  met  with  on  the  banks 
of  Loch  Lomond,  a  Httle  above  Tarbert,  and  in  front  of  a 
huge  mass  of  rock,  by  the  side  of  which,  we  were  told,  preach- 
ings were  often  held  in  the  open  air.  The  place  is  quite  a 
solitude,  and  the  surrounding  scenery  very  striking.  How 
much  is  it  to  be  regretted  that,  instead  of  writing  such  Poems 
as  the  "Holy  Fair"  and  others,  in  which  the  religious  observ- 
ances of  his  country  are  treated  with  so  much  levity  and  too 
often  with  indecency.  Burns  had  not  employed  his  genius  in 
describing  religion  under  the  serious  and  affecting  aspects  it 
must  so  frequently  take. 


263 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND 


SUGGESTED  BY  A  BEAUTIFUL  RUIN  UPON  ONE  OF  THE 
ISLANDS  OF  LOCII  LOMOND,  A  PLACE  CHOSEN  FOR  THE 
RETREAT  OF  A  SOLITARY  INDIVIDUAL,  FROM  WHOM  THIS 
HABITATION    ACQUIRED    THE    NAME   OF 

THE  BROWNIE'S   CELL 

1814     1820 

I 

To  barren  heath,  bleak  moor,  and  quaking  fen, 

Or  depth  of  labyrinthine  glen; 

Or  into  trackless  forest  set 

With  trees,  whose  lofty  umbrage  met. 

World-wearied  Men  withdrew  of  yore; 

(Penance  their  trust,  and  prayer  their  store;) 

And  in  the  wilderness  were  bound 

To  such  apartments  as  they  found. 

Or  with  a  new  ambition  raised; 

That  God  might  suitably  be  praised. 

II 

High  lodged  the  Warrior,  like  a  bird  of  prey; 
Or  where  broad  waters  round  him  lay: 
But  this  wild  Ruin  is  no  ghost 
Of  his  devices  —  buried,  lost! 
f  2G4  1 


THE  BROWNIE'S   CELL 

Within  this  Httle  lonely  isle 

There  stood  a  consecrated  Pile; 

Where  tapers  burned,  and  mass  was  sung. 

For  them  whose  timid  Spirits  clung 

To  mortal  succour,  though  the  tomb 

Had  fixed,  for  ever  fixed,  their  doom ! 

Ill 

Upon  those  servants  of  another  world 
When  madding  Power  her  bolts  had  hurled, 
Their  habitation  shook  —  it  fell, 
And  perished,  save  one  narrow  cell; 
Whither,  at  length,  a  Wretch  retired 
Who  neither  grovelled  nor  aspired; 
He,  struggling  in  the  net  of  pride, 
The  future  scorned,  the  past  defied; 
Still  tempering,  from  the  unguilty  forge 
Of  vain  conceit,  an  iron  scourge! 

IV 

Proud  Remnant  was  he  of  a  fearless  Race, 
Who  stood  and  flourished  face  to  face 
With  their  perennial  hills;  —  but  Crime, 
Hastening  the  stern  decrees  of  Time, 
Brought  low  a  Power,  which  from  its  home 
Burst,  when  repose  grew  wearisome; 
f  265  1 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND 

And,  taking  impulse  from  the  sword. 
And,  mocking  its  own  plighted  word. 
Had  found,  in  ravage  widely  dealt. 
Its  warfare's  bourn,  its  travel's  belt! 


All,  all  were  dispossessed,  save  him  whose  smile 
Shot  lightning  through  this  lonely  Isle ! 
No  right  had  he  but  what  he  made 
To  this  small  spot,  his  leafy  shade; 
But  the  ground  lay  within  that  ring 
To  which  he  only  dared  to  cling; 
Renouncing  here,  as  worse  than  dead, 
The  craven  few  who  bowed  the  head 
Beneath  the  change;  who  heard  a  claim 
How  loud!  yet  lived  in  peace  with  shame. 

VI 

From  year  to  year  this  shaggy  Mortal  went 
(So  seemed  it)  down  a  strange  descent: 
Till  they,  who  saw  his  outward  frame. 
Fixed  on  him  an  unhallowed  name; 
Him,  free  from  all  malicious  taint, 
And  guiding,  like  the  Patmos  Saint, 
A  pen  unwearied  —  to  indite. 
In  his  lone  Isle,  the  dreams  of  night; 
f  2G6  1 


THE   BROWNIE'S   CELL 

Impassioned  dreams,  that  strove  to  span 
The  faded  glories  of  his  Clan! 

VII 

Suns  that  through  blood  their  western  harbour 

sought, 
And  stars  that  in  their  courses  fought; 
Towers  rent,  winds  combating  with  woods, 
Lands  deluged  by  unbridled  floods; 
And  beast  and  bird  that  from  the  spell 
Of  sleep  took  import  terrible;  — 
These  types  mysterious  (if  the  show 
Of  battle  and  the  routed  foe 
Had  failed)  would  furnish  an  array 
Of  matter  for  the  dawning  day ! 

VIII 

How  disappeared  He?  —  ask  the  newt  and  toad, 
Inheritors  of  his  abode; 
The  otter  crouching  undisturbed. 
In  her  dank  cleft ;  —  but  be  thou  curbed, 
O  fro  ward  Fancy!  'mid  a  scene 
Of  aspect  winning  and  serene; 
For  those  offensive  creatures  shun 
The  inquisition  of  the  sun ! 
And  in  this  region  flowers  delight, 
And  all  is  lovely  to  the  sight. 
\  ^267  1 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND 

IX 

Si)ring  finds  not  here  a  melaneholy  breast, 
When  she  applies  her  annual  test 
To  dead  and  living;  when  her  breath 
Quickens,  as  now,  the  withered  heath;  — 
Nor  flaunting  Summer  —  when  he  throws 
His  soul  into  the  briar-rose; 
Or  calls  the  lily  from  her  sleep 
Prolonged  beneath  the  bordering  deep; 
Nor  Autumn,  when  the  viewless  wren 
Is  warbling  near  the  Brownie's  Den. 


Wild  Relique !  beauteous  as  the  chosen  spot 
In  Nysa's  isle,  the  embellished  grot; 
Whither,  by  care  of  Libyan  Jove, 
(High  Servant  of  paternal  Love) 
Young  Bacchus  was  conveyed  —  to  lie 
Safe  from  his  step-dame  Rhea's  eye; 
Where  bud,  and  bloom,  and  fruitage  glowed. 
Close-crowding  round  the  infant-god; 
All  colours,  —  and  the  liveliest  streak 
A  foil  to  his  celestial  cheek! 


268 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND 

II 

COMPOSED  AT  CORA  LINN 

IN  SIGHT  OF  Wallace's  tower 

1814     1820 

I  had  seen  this  celebrated  Waterfall  twice  before;  but  the 
feelings,  to  which  it  had  given  birth,  were  not  expressed  till 
they  recurred  in  presence  of  the  object  on  this  occasion. 

«'_  How  Wallace  fought  for  Scotland;  left  the  name 
Of  Wallace  to  be  found,  like  a  wild  flower. 
All  over  his  dear  Country;  left  the  deeds 
Of  Wallace,  like  a  family  of  Ghosts, 
To  people  the  steep  rocks  and  river  banks. 
Her  natural  sanctuaries,  with  a  local  soul 
Of  independence  and  stern  liberty."  —  Vol.  iii,  p.  13. 

Lord  of  the  vale!  astounding  Flood; 
The  dullest  leaf  in  this  thick  wood 
Quakes  —  conscious  of  thy  power; 
The  caves  reply  with  hollow  moan; 
And  vibrates,  to  its  central  stone. 
Yon  time-cemented  Tower! 

And  yet  how  fair  the  rural  scene! 
For  thou,  O  Clyde,  hast  ever  beea 
Beneficent  as  strong; 
Pleased  in  refreshing  dews  to  steep 

f  2C9  1 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND 

The  little  trembling  flowers  that  peep 
Thy  shelving  rocks  among. 

Hence  all  who  love  their  country,  love 
To  look  on  thee  —  delight  to  rove 
Where  they  thy  voice  can  hear; 
And,  to  the  patriot-warrior's  Shade, 
Lord  of  the  vale !  to  Heroes  laid 
In  dust,  that  voice  is  dear! 

Along  thy  banks,  at  dead  of  night 
Sweeps  visibly  the  Wallace  Wight; 
Or  stands,  in  warlike  vest. 
Aloft,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
A  Champion  worthy  of  the  stream. 
Yon  grey  tower's  living  crest! 

But  clouds  and  envious  darkness  hide 
A  Form  not  doubtfully  descried:  — 
Their  transient  mission  o'er, 
O  say  to  what  blind  region  flee 
These  Shapes  of  awful  phantasy? 
To  what  untrodden  shore? 

Less  than  divine  command  they  spurn; 
But  this  we  from  the  mountains  learn, 
[  270  1 


COMPOSED   AT   CORA   LINN 

And  this  the  valleys  show; 
That  never  will  they  deign  to  hold 
Communion  where  the  heart  is  cold 
To  human  weal  and  woe. 

The  man  of  abject  soul  in  vain 
Shall  walk  the  Marathonian  plain; 
Or  thrid  the  shadowy  gloom. 
That  still  invests  the  guardian  Pass, 
Where  stood,  sublime,  Leonidas 
Devoted  to  the  tomb. 

And  let  no  Slave  his  head  incline. 

Or  kneel,  before  the  votive  shrine 

By  Uri's  lake,  where  Tell 

Leapt,  from  his  storm-vext  boat,  to  land. 

Heaven's  Instrument,  for  by  his  hand 

That  day  the  Tyrant  fell. 


[  271  ] 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN   SCOTLAND 

III 

EFFUSION 

IN  THE  PLEASURE-GROUND  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  BRAN 
NEAR    DUNKELD 

1814       1827 

I  am  not  aware  that  this  condemnatory  effusion  was  ever 
seen  by  the  owner  of  the  place.  He  might  be  disposed  to  pay 
little  attention  to  it;  but  were  it  to  prove  otherwise  I  should 
be  glad,  for  the  whole  exhibition  is  distressingly  puerile. 

"The  waterfall,  by  a  loud  roaring,  warned  us  when  we  must 
expect  it.  We  were  first,  however,  conducted  into  a  small 
apartment,  where  the  Gardener  desired  us  to  look  at  a  picture 
of  Ossian,  which,  while  he  was  telling  the  history  of  the  young 
Artist  who  executed  the  work,  disappeared,  parting  in  the 
middle  —  flying  asunder  as  by  the  touch  of  magic  —  and  lo! 
we  are  at  the  entrance  of  a  splendid  apartment,  wliich  was 
almost  dizzy  and  alive  with  waterfalls,  that  tumbled  in  all 
directions;  the  great  cascade,  opposite  the  window,  which 
faced  us,  being  reflected  in  innumerable  mirrors  upon  the 
ceiling  and  against  the  walls."  —  Extract  from  the  Journal  of 
my  Fclloic-Traveller. 

What  He  —  who,  'mid  the  kindred  throng 
Of  Heroes  that  inspired  his  song. 
Doth  yet  frequent  the  hill  of  storms, 
The  stars  dim-twinkling  through  their  forms! 
What!  Ossian  here  —  a  painted  Thrall, 
Mute  fixture  on  a  stuccoed  wall; 
f  272  1 


EFFUSION 

To  serve  —  an  unsuspected  screen 
For  show  that  must  not  yet  be  seen; 
And,  when  the  moment  comes,  to  part 
And  vanish  by  mysterious  art; 
Head,  harp,  and  body,  spHt  asunder, 
For  ingress  to  a  world  of  wonder; 
A  gay  saloon,  with  waters  dancing 
Upon  the  sight  wherever  glancing; 
One  loud  cascade  in  front,  and  lo! 
A  thousand  like  it,  white  as  snow  — 
Streams  on  the  walls,  and  torrent-foam 
As  active  round  the  hollow  dome, 
Illusive  cataracts !  of  their  terrors 
Not  stripped,  nor  voiceless  in  the  mirrors, 
That  catch  the  pageant  from  the  flood 
Thundering  adown  a  rocky  wood. 
What  pains  to  dazzle  and  confound! 
What  strife  of  colour,  shape  and  sound 
In  this  quaint  medley,  that  might  seem 
Devised  out  of  a  sick  man's  dream! 
Strange  scene,  fantastic  and  uneasy   . 
As  ever  made  a  maniac  dizzy. 
When  disenchanted  from  the  mood 
That  loves  on  sullen  thoughts  to  brood ! 
O  Nature  —  in  thy  changeful  visions. 
Through  all  thy  most  abrupt  transitions 
[  273  1 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN   SCOTLAND 

Smooth,  graceful,  tender,  or  sublime  — 

Ever  averse  to  pantomime, 

Thee  neither  do  they  know  nor  us 

Thy  servants,  who  can  trifle  thus; 

Else  verily  the  sober  powers 

Of  rock  that  frowns,  and  stream  that  roars, 

Exalted  by  congenial  sway 

Of  Spirits,  and  the  undying  Lay, 

And  Names  that  moulder  not  away, 

Had  wakened  some  redeeming  thought 

More  worthy  of  this  favoured  Spot; 

Recalled  some  feeling  —  to  set  free 

The  Bard  from  such  indignity ! 

The  Effigies  of  a  valiant  Wight 
I  once  beheld,  a  Templar  Knight; '"' 
Not  prostrate,  not  like  those  that  rest 
On  tombs,  with  palms  together  prest, 
But  sculptured  out  of  living  stone, 
And  standing  upright  and  alone. 
Both  hands  with  rival  energy 
Employed  in  setting  his  sword  free 
From  its  dull  sheath  —  stern  sentinel 
Intent  to  guard  St.  Robert's  cell; 
As  if  with  memory  of  the  affray 
Far  distant,  when,  as  legends  say, 
The  Monks  of  Fountain's  thronged  to  force 
[  274  ] 


EFFUSION 

From  its  dear  home  the  Hermit's  corse, 
That  in  their  keeping  it  might  lie, 
To  crown  their  abbey's  sanctity. 
So  had  they  rushed  into  the  grot 
Of  sense  despised,  a  world  forgot, 
And  torn  him  from  his  loved  retreat. 
Where  altar-stone  and  rock-hewn  seat 
Still  hint  that  quiet  best  is  found. 
Even  by  the  Living,  under  ground; 
But  a  bold  Knight,  the  selfish  aim 
Defeating,  put  the  monks  to  shame. 
There  where  you  see  his  Image  stand 
Bare  to  the  sky,  with  threatening  brand 
Which  lingering  Nid  is  proud  to  show 
Reflected  in  the  pool  below. 

Thus,  like  the  men  of  earliest  days. 
Our  sires  set  forth  their  grateful  praise: 
Uncouth  the  workmanship,  and  rude! 
But,  nursed  in  mountain  solitude, 
Might  some  aspiring  artist  dare 
To  seize  whate'er,  through  misty  air, 
A  ghost,  by  glimpses,  may  present 
Of  imitable  lineament, 
And  give  the  phantom  an  array 
That  less  should  scorn  the  abandoned  clay; 
Then  let  him  hew  with  patient  stroke 
f  275  1 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR   IN   SCOTLAND 

An  Ossian  out  of  mural  rock, 
And  leave  the  figurative  Man  — 
Upon  thy  margin,  roaring  Bran !  — 
Fixed,  like  the  Templar  of  the  steep. 
An  everlasting  watch  to  keep; 
With  local  sanctities  in  trust, 
More  precious  than  a  hermit's  dust; 
And  virtues  through  the  mass  infused. 
Which  old  idolatry  abused. 

What  though  the  Granite  would  deny 
All  fervour  to  the  sightless  eye; 
And  touch  from  rising  suns  in  vain 
Solicit  a  Memnonian  strain; 
Yet,  in  some  fit  of  anger  sharp, 
The  wind  might  force  the  deep-grooved  harp 
To  utter  melancholy  moans 
Not  unconnected  with  the  tones 
Of  soul-sick  flesh  and  weary  bones; 
While  grove  and  river  notes  would  lend. 
Less  deeply  sad,  with  these  to  blend! 

Vain  pleasures  of  luxurious  life. 
For  ever  with  yourselves  at  strife; 
Through  town  and  country  both  deranged 
By  affectations  interchanged. 
And  all  the  perishable  gauds 
That  hcaven-dcscrtcd  man  api)lauds; 
f  270  1 


EFFUSION 

When  will  your  Iiapless  patrons  learn 
To  watch  and  ponder  —  to  discern 
The  freshness,  the  everlasting  youth, 
Of  admiration  sprung  from  truth; 
From  beauty  infinitely  growing 
Upon  a  mind  with  love  o'erflowing  — 
To  sound  the  depths  of  every  Art 
That  seeks  its  wisdom  through  the  heart? 

Thus  (where  the  intrusive  Pile,  ill-graced 
With  baubles  of  theatric  taste, 
O'erlooks  the  torrent  breathing  showers 
On  motley  banks  of  alien  flowers 
In  stiff  confusion  set  or  sown. 
Till  Nature  cannot  find  her  own. 
Or  keep  a  remnant  of  the  sod 
Which  Caledonian  Heroes  trod) 
I  mused;  and,  thirsting  for  redress, 
Recoiled  into  the  wilderness. 


f  277  ] 


INIEMORLiLS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND 

IV 

YARROW  VISITED 

SEPTEMBER   1814 

1814     1815 

As  mentioned  in  my  verses  on  the  death  of  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  my  first  visit  to  Yarrow  was  in  his  company.  We 
had  lodged  the  night  before  at  Traquhair,  where  Hogg  had 
joined  us  and  also  Dr.  Anderson,  the  Editor  of  the  British 
Poets,  who  was  on  a  visit  at  the  Manse.  Dr.  A.  walked  wi*^h 
us  till  we  came  in  view  of  the  Vale  of  Yarrow,  and,  being 
advanced  in  life,  he  then  turned  back.  The  old  Man  was 
passionately  fond  of  poetry,  though  with  not  much  of  a  dis- 
criminating judgment,  as  the  Volumes  he  edited  sufficiently 
show.  But  I  was  much  pleased  to  meet  with  him,  and  to 
acknowledge  my  obligation  to  his  collection,  which  had  been 
my  brother  John's  com[)anion  in  more  than  one  voyage  to 
India,  and  which  he  gave  me  before  his  departure  from  Gras- 
mere,  never  to  return.  Through  these  Volumes  I  became  first 
familiar  with  Chaucer,  and  so  little  money  had  I  then  to 
spare  for  books,  that,  in  all  probability,  but  for  this  same 
work,  I  should  have  known  little  of  Drayton,  Daniel,  and 
other  distinguished  poets  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  and  their 
immediate  successors,  till  a  much  later  period  of  my  life.  I  am 
glad  to  record  this,  not  from  any  importance  of  its  own,  but 
as  a  tribute  of  gratitude  to  this  simple-hearted  old  man, 
whom  I  never  again  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting.  I  seldom 
read  or  think  of  this  poem  without  regretting  that  my  dear 
Sister  was  not  of  the  party,  as  she  would  have  had  so  much 
delight   in  recalling   the  time  when,   travelling   together  in 

f  278  1 


YARROW   VISITED 

Scotland,  we  declinofl  going  in  search  of  this  celcl)rated  stream, 
not  altogether,  I  v/ill  frankly  confess,  for  the  reasons  assigned 
in  the  poem  on  the  occasion. 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow?  —  This  the  Stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherished, 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream? 

An  image  that  hath  perished! 

O  that  some  Minstrel's  harp  were  near. 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness! 

Yet  why?  —  a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontrolled  meanderings; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths.  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  Vale, 
Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 
Is  round  the  rising  sun  difl^used, 
A  tender  hazy  brightness; 
Mild  dawn  of  promise!  that  excludes 
All  profitless  dejection; 
r  279  1 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR   IN   SCOTLAND 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 
A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding : 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool. 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning. 

The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice  — 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 

The  haunts  of  happy  Lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove. 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers: 

And  Pity  sanctifies  the  Verse 

That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love; 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 
To  fond  imagination, 
Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 
Her  delicate  creation: 
Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 
A  softness  still  and  holy; 
f  280  1 


YARROW   VISITED 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed. 
And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature. 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  Nature; 

And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves. 

Behold  a  Ruin  hoary! 

The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  Towers, 

Renowned  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in; 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength; 

And  age  to  wear  away  in! 

Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts,  that  nestle  there  — 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day. 
The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 
And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  plant 
A  crest  of  blooming  heather! 
And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own ! 
'T  were  no  offence  to  reason; 
f  281  1 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR   IN   SCOTLAND 

The  sober  Hills  thus  deck  their  brows 
To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see  —  but  not  by  sight  alone. 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee; 

A  ray  of  fancy  still  survives  — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee ! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe. 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  Heights, 
They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine  — 
Sad  thought  which  I  would  banish. 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow! 
Will  dwell  with  me  —  to  heighten  joy. 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 


282  ] 


"FROM   THE   DARK   CHAMBERS  OF 
DEJECTION   FREED" 

1814     1815 

Composed  in  Edinburgh,  during  my  Scotch  tour  with  Mrs. 
Wordsworth  and  my  sister  Miss  Hutchinson,  in  the  year  1814. 
Poor  Gillies  never  rose  above  that  course  of  extravagance  in 
which  he  was  at  that  time  living,  and  which  soon  reduced  him 
to  poverty  and  all  its  degrading  shifts,  mendicity  being  far 
from  the  worst.  I  grieve  whenever  I  think  of  him,  for  he  was 
far  from  being  without  genius,  and  had  a  generous  heart,  not 
always  to  be  found  in  men  given  up  to  profusion.  He  was 
nephew  of  Lord  Gillies  the  Scotch  judge,  and  also  of  the 
historian  of  Greece.  He  was  cousin  to  Miss  Margaret  Gillies, 
who  painted  so  many  portraits  with  success  in  our  house. 

From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed, 

Spurning  the  unprofitable  yoke  of  care, 

Rise,  Gillies,  rise;  the  gales  of  youth  shall  bear 

Thy  genius  forward  like  a  winged  steed. 

Though  bold  Bellerophon  (so  Jove  decreed 

In  wrath)  fell  headlong  from  the  fields  of  air, 

Yet  a  rich  guerdon  waits  on  minds  that  dare, 

If  aught  be  in  them  of  immortal  seed. 

And  reason  govern  that  audacious  flight 

Which  heavenward  they  direct.  —  Then  droop  not 

thou, 

[  283  ] 


FROM  THE  DARK  CHAMBERS 

Erroneously  renewing  a  sad  vow 
In  the  low  dell  'mid  Rosliri's  faded  grove: 
A  cheerful  life  is  what  the  Muses  love, 
A  soaring  spirit  is  their  prime  delight. 


284  ] 


LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK.  LEAF  IN  A  COPY  OF  THE  AU- 
THOr's  poem  "the  EXCURSION,"  UPON  HEARING  OF 
THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LATE    VICAR    OF    KENDAL 

1814     1815 

To  public  notice,  with  reluctance  strong. 

Did  I  deliver  this  unfinished  Song; 

Yet  for  one  happy  issue;  —  and  I  look 

With  self-congratulation  on  the  Book 

Which  pious,  learned  Murfitt  saw  and  read;  — 

Upon  my  thoughts  his  saintly  Spirit  fed; 

He  conned  the  new-born  Lay  with  grateful  heart  — 

Foreboding  not  how  soon  he  must  depart; 

Unweeting  that  to  him  the  joy  was  given 

Which  good  men  take  with  them  from  earth  to  heaven. 


285 


TO  B.  R.  HAYDON 

1815     1816 

High  is  our  calling,  Friend!  —  Creative  Art 
(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 
Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues,) 
Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 
Though  sensitive,  yet,  in  their  weakest  part. 
Heroically  fashioned  —  to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert. 
And,  oh!  when  Nature  sinks,  as  oft  she  may, 
Through  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure  distress. 
Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward. 
And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay, 
Brook  no  continuance  of  weak-mindedness  — 
Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard! 


286 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE 

1815     1820 

(see     the     chronicle     of     GEOFFREY    OF    MONMOUTH 
AND    MILTON's    history    OF    ENGLAND) 

This  was  written  at  Rydal  Mount,  as  a  token  of  affectionate 
respect  for  the  memory  of  Milton.  "I  have  determined,"  says 
he,  in  his  preface  to  his  History  of  England,  "to  bestow  the 
telHng  over  even  of  these  reputed  tales,  be  it  for  nothing  else 
but  in  favour  of  our  English  Poets  and  Rhetoricians,  who  by 
their  wit  will  know  how  to  use  them  judiciously." 

Where  be  the  temples  which,  in  Britain's  Isle, 
For  his  paternal  Gods,  the  Trojan  raised? 
Gone  like  a  morning  dream,  or  like  a  pile 
Of  clouds  that  in  cerulean  ether  blazed ! 
Ere  Julius  landed  on  her  white-cliffed  shore, 

They  sank,  delivered  o'er 
To  fatal  dissolution;  and,  I  ween, 
No  vestige  then  was  left  that  such  had  ever  been. 

Natliless,  a  British  record  (long  concealed 
In  old  Armorica,  whose  secret  springs 
No  Gothic  conqueror  ever  drank)  revealed 
The  marvellous  current  of  forgotten  things; 
f  287  1 


ARTEGAL  AND   ELIDURE 

How  Brutus  came,  by  oracles  impelled. 

And  Albion's  giants  quelled, 
A  brood  whom  no  civility  could  melt, 
"Who  never  tasted  grace,  and  goodness  ne'er  had  felt." 

By  brave  Corineus  aided,  he  subdued, 

And  rooted  out  the  intolerable  kind; 

And  this  too-long-polluted  land  imbued 

With  goodly  arts  and  usages  refined; 

Whence  golden  harvests,  cities,  warlike  towers, 

And  pleasure's  sumptuous  bowers; 
Whence  all  the  fixed  delights  of  house  and  home, 
Friendships  that  will  not  break,  and  love  that  can- 
not roam. 

O,  happy  Britain!  region  all  too  fair 
For  self-delighting  fancy  to  endure 
That  silence  only  should  inhabit  there, 
Wild  beasts,  or  uncouth  savages  impure! 
But,  intermingled  with  the  generous  seed. 

Grew  many  a  poisonous  weed; 
Thus  fares  it  still  with  all  that  takes  its  birth 
From  human  care,  or  grows  upon  the  breast  of  earth. 

Hence,  and  how  soon!  that  war  of  vengeance  waged 
By  Guendolen  against  her  faithless  lord; 
[  288  1 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE 

Till  she,  in  jealous  fury  unassuaged 

Had  slain  his  paramour  with  ruthless  sword  : 

Then,  into  Severn  hideously  defiled, 

She  flung  her  blameless  child, 
Sabrina,  —  vowing  that  the  stream  should  bear 
That  name  through  every  age,  her  hatred  to  declare. 

So  speaks  the  Chronicle,  and  tells  of  Lear 

By  his  ungrateful  daughters  turned  adrift. 

Ye  lightnings,  hear  his  voice !  —  they  cannot  hear, 

Nor  can  the  winds  restore  his  simple  gift. 

But  One  there  is,  a  Child  of  nature  meek, 

Who  comes  her  Sire  to  seek; 
And  he,  recovering  sense,  upon  her  breast 
Leans  smilingly,  and  sinks  into  a  perfect  rest. 

There  too  we  read  of  Spenser's  fairy  themes. 
And  those  that  Milton  loved  in  youthful  years; 
The  sage  enchanter  Merlin's  subtle  schemes; 
The  feats  of  Arthur  and  his  knightly  peers; 
Of  Arthur,  —  who,  to  upper  light  restored. 

With  that  terrific  sword 
Which  yet  he  brandishes  for  future  war. 
Shall  lift  his  country's  fame  above  the  polar  star! 

What  wonder,  then,  if  in  such  ample  field 
Of  old  tradition,  one  particular  flower 
[  289  I 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE 

Doth  seemingly  in  vain  its  fragrance  yield, 
And  bloom  unnoticed  even  to  this  late  hour? 
Now,  gentle  Muses,  your  assistance  grant, 

While  I  this  flower  transplant 
Into  a  garden  stored  with  Poesy; 
Where  flowers  and  herbs  unite,  and  haply  some  weeds 

be. 
That,  wanting  not  wild  grace,  are  from  all  mischief 

free! 

A  King  more  worthy  of  respect  and  love 
Than  wise  Gorbonian  ruled  not  in  his  day; 
And  grateful  Britain  prospered  far  above 
All  neighbouring  countries  through  his  righteous  sway; 
He  poured  rewards  and  honours  on  the  good; 

The  oppressor  he  withstood: 
And  while  he  served  the  Gods  with  reverence  due 
Fields  smiled,  and  temples  rose,  and  towns  and  cities 
grew. 

He  died,  whom  Artegal  succeeds  —  his  son; 
But  how  unworthy  of  that  sire  was  he ! 
A  ho])eful  reign,  auspiciously  Ijcgun, 
Was  darkened  soon  by  foul  iniquity. 
From  crime  to  crime  he  mounted,  till  at  length 
The  nobles  leagued  their  strength 
f  200  1 


ARTEGAL  AND   ELIDURE 

With  a  vexed  people,  and  the  tyrant  chased; 
And,  on  the  vacant  throne,  his  worthier  Brother 
placed. 

From  realm  to  realm  the  humbled  Exile  went. 

Suppliant  for  aid  his  kingdom  to  regain; 

In  many  a  court,  and  many  a  warrior's  tent. 

He  urged  his  persevering  suit  in  vain. 

Him,  in  whose  wretched  heart  ambition  failed. 

Dire  poverty  assailed; 
And,  tired  with  slights  his  pride  no  more  could  brook. 
He  towards  his  native  country  cast  a  longing  look. 

Fair  blew  the  wished-for  wind  —  the  voyage  sped; 
He  landed;  and,  by  many  dangers  scared, 
"Poorly  provided,  poorly  followed," 
To  Calaterium's  forest  he  repaired. 
How  changed  from  him  who,  born  to  highest  place, 

Had  swayed  the  royal  mace, 
Flattered  and  feared,  despised  yet  deified, 
In  Troynovant,  his  seat  by  silver  Thames's  side! 

From  that  wild  region  where  the  crownless  King 
Lay  in  concealment  with  his  scanty  train. 
Supporting  life  by  water  from  the  spring. 
And  such  chance  food  as  outlaws  can  obtain, 
[    291   1 


ARTEGAL  AND   ELIDURE 

Unto  the  few  whom  he  esteems  his  friends 

A  messenger  he  sends; 
And  from  their  secret  loyalty  requires 
Shelter  and  daily  bread,  —  the  sum  of  his  desires. 

While  he  the  issue  waits,  at  early  morn 
Wandering  by  stealth  abroad,  he  chanced  to  hear 
A  startling  outcry  made  by  hound  and  horn. 
From  which  the  tusky  wild  boar  flies  in  fear; 
And,  scouring  toward  him  o'er  the  grassy  plain, 

Behold  the  hunter  train! 
He  bids  his  little  company  advance 
With  seeming  unconcern  and  steady  countenance. 

The  royal  Elidure,  who  leads  the  chase. 
Hath  checked  his  foaming  courser:  —  can  it  be! 
Methinks  that  I  should  recognise  that  face. 
Though  much  disguised  by  long  adversity! 
He  gazed  rejoicing,  and  again  he  gazed, 

Confounded  and  amazed  — 
'It  is  the  king,  my  brother!"  and,  by  sound 
Of  his  own  voice  confirmed,  he  leaps  upon  the  ground. 

liOng,  strict,  and  tender  was  the  embrace  he  gave. 
Feebly  returned  by  daunted  Artegal; 
Whose  natural  affection  doubts  enslave, 
f  29^2  1 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE 

And  apprehensions  dark  and  criminal. 
Loth  to  restrain  the  moving  interview. 

The  attendant  lords  withdrew; 
And,  while  they  stood  upon  the  plain  apart. 
Thus  Elidure,  by  words,  relieved  his  struggling  heart. 

"By  heavenly  Powers  conducted,  we  have  met; 
—  O  Brother !  to  ray  knowledge  lost  so  long. 
But  neither  lost  to  love,  nor  to  regret. 
Nor  to  my  wishes  lost ;  —  forgive  the  wrong, 
(Such  it  may  seem)  if  I  thy  crown  have  borne. 

Thy  royal  mantle  worn: 
I  was  their  natural  guardian;  and  't  is  just 
That  now  I  should  restore  what  hath  been  held  in 
trust." 

A  while  the  astonished  Artegal  stood  mute, 
Then  thus  exclaimed:  "To  me,  of  titles  shorn. 
And  stripped  of  power!  me,  feeble,  destitute. 
To  me  a  kingdom!  spare  the  bitter  scorn: 
If  justice  ruled  the  breast  of  foreign  kings. 

Then,  on  the  widespread  wings 
Of  war,  had  I  returned  to  claim  my  right ; 
This  will  I  here  avow,  not  dreacjing  thy  despite." 

"I  do  not  blame  thee,"  Elidure  replied; 
"But,  if  my  looks  did  with  my  words  agree, 
f  293  1 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE 

I  should  at  once  be  trusted,  not  defied. 
And  thou  from  all  disquietude  be  free. 
May  the  unsullied  Goddess  of  the  chase, 

Who  to  this  blessed  place 
At  this  blest  moment  led  me,  if  I  speak 
With  insincere  intents,  on  me  her  vengeance  wreak! 

'Were  this  same  spear,  which  in  my  hand  I  grasp. 
The  British  sceptre,  here  would  I  to  thee 
The  symbol  yield;  and  would  undo  this  clasp. 
If  it  confined  the  robe  of  sovereignty. 
Odious  to  me  the  pomp  of  regal  court. 

And  joyless  sylvan  sport, 
While  thou  art  roving,  wretched  and  forlorn. 
Thy  couch  the  dewy  earth,  thy  roof  the  forest  thorn ! " 

Then  Artegal  thus  spake:  "I  only  sought. 
Within  this  realm  a  place  of  safe  retreat; 
Beware  of  rousing  an  ambitious  thought; 
Beware  of  kindling  hopes,  for  me  unmeet! 
Thou  art  reputed  wise,  but  in  my  mind 

Art  pitiably  blind: 
Full  soon  this  generous  purpose  thou  may'st  rue. 
When  that  which  has  been  done  no  wishes  can  undo. 

'Who,  wlien  a  crown  is  fixed  upon  his  head. 
Would  balance  claim  with  claim,  and  right  with  right? 
f  294  1 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE 

But  thou  —  I  know  not  how  inspired,  how  led  — 
Wouldst  change  the  course  of  things  in  all  men's 

sight ! 
And  this  for  one  who  cannot  imitate 
Thy  virtue,  who  may  hate: 
For,  if,  by  such  strange  sacrifice  restored. 
He  reign,  thou  still  must  be  his  king,  and  sovereign 

lord; 

"Lifted  in  magnanimity  above 
Aught  that  my  feeble  nature  could  perform. 
Or  even  conceive;  surpassing  me  in  love 
Far  as  in  power  the  eagle  doth  the  worm. 
I,  Brother!  only  should  be  king  in  name, 

And  govern  to  my  shame; 
A  shadow  in  a  hated  land,  while  all 
Of  glad  or  willing  service  to  thy  share  would  fall." 

"Believe  it  not,"  said  Elidure;  "respect 
Awaits  on  virtuous  life,  and  ever  most 
Attends  on  goodness  with  dominion  decked, 
Which  stands  the  universal  empire's  boast; 
This  can  thy  own  experience  testify; 

Nor  shall  thy  foes  deny 
That,  in  the  gracious  opening  of  thy  reign. 
Our  father's  spirit  seemed  in  thee  to  breathe  again. 
f  295  1 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE 

"And  what  if  o'er  thy  bright  unbosoming 
Clouds  of  disgrace  and  envious  fortune  past! 
Have  we  not  seen  the  glories  of  the  spring 
By  veil  of  noontide  darkness  overcast? 
The  frith  that  glittered  like  a  warrior's  shield, 

The  sky,  the  gay  green  field, 
Are  vanished;  gladness  ceases  in  the  groves, 
And   trepidation   strikes   the   blackened   mountain- 
coves. 

"But  is  that  gloom  dissolved?  how  passing  clear 
Seems  the  wide  world,  far  brighter  than  before! 
Even  so  thy  latent  worth  will  reappear, 
Gladdening  the  people's  heart  from  shore  to  shore; 
For  youthful  faults  ripe  virtues  shall  atone; 

Reseated  on  thy  throne. 
Proof  shalt  thou  furnish  that  misfortune,  pain. 
And  sorrow,  have  confirmed  thy  native  right  to  reign. 

"  But,  not  to  overlook  what  thou  may'st  know, 
Thy  enemies  are  neither  weak  nor  few; 
And  circumspect  must  be  our  course,  and  slow, 
Or  from  my  purpose  ruin  may  ensue. 
Dismiss  thy  followers;  —  let  them  calmly  wait 

Such  change  in  thy  estate 
As  I  already  have  in  thought  devised; 
And  which,  with  caution  due,  may  soon  be  realised." 
[  296  ] 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDU^E 

The  Story  tells  what  courses  were  pursued. 
Until  King  Elidure,  with  full  consent 
Of  all  his  peers,  before  the  multitude, 
Rose,  —  and,  to  consummate  this  just  intent, 
Did  place  upon  his  brother's  head  the  crown, 

Relinquished  by  his  own; 
Then  to  his  people  cried,  "Receive  your  lord, 
Gorbonian's   first-born  son,   your  rightful   king 
restored!" 

The  people  answered  with  a  loud  acclaim: 
Yet  more;  —  heart-smitten  by  the  heroic  deed. 
The  reinstated  Artegal  became 
Earth's  noblest  penitent;  from  bondage  freed 
Of  vice  —  thenceforth  unable  to  subvert 

Or  shake  his  high  desert. 
Long  did  he  reign;  and,  when  he  died,  the  tear 
Of  universal  grief  bedewed  his  honoured  bier. 

Thus  was  a  Brother  by  a  Brother  saved; 
With  whom  a  crown  (temptation  that  hath  set 
Discord  in  hearts  of  men  till  they  have  braved 
Their  nearest  kin  wath  deadly  purpose  met) 
'Gainst  duty  weighed,  and  faithful  love,  did  seem 

A  thing  of  no  esteem; 
And,  from  this  triumph  of  affection  pure, 
He  bore  the  lasting  name  of  "pious  Elidure." 
f  207  1 


/ 


SEPTEMBER  1815 

1815     1816 

"For  me  who  under  kindlier  laws."  This  conclusion  has 
more  than  once,  to  my  great  regret,  excited  painfully  sad 
feelings  in  the  hearts  of  young  persons  fond  of  poetry  and 
poetic  composition,  by  contrast  of  their  feeble  and  declining 
health  with  that  state  of  robust  constitution  which  prompted 
me  to  rejoice  in  a  season  of  frost  and  snow  as  more  favourable 
to  the  Muses  than  Summer  itself. 

While  not  a  leaf  seems  faded ;  while  the  fields. 

With  ripening  harvest  prodigally  fair. 

In  brightest  sunshine  bask;  this  nipping  air. 

Sent  from  some  distant  clime  where  Winter  wields 

His  icy  scimitar,  a  foretaste  yields 

Of  bitter  change,  and  bids  the  flow^ers  beware; 

And  whispers  to  the  silent  birds,  "Prepare 

Against  the  threatening  foe  your  trustiest  shields." 

For  me,  who  under  kindlier  laws  belong 

To  Nature's  tuneful  quire,  this  rustling  dry 

Through  leaves  yet  green,  and  yon  crystalline  sky. 

Announce  a  season  potent  to  renew, 

'Mid  frost  and  snow,  the  instinctive  joys  of  song, 

And  nobler  cares  than  listless  Summer  knew. 


298 


NOVEMBER  1 

1815     1816 

Suggested  on  the  banks  of  the  Brathay  by  the  sight  of 
Langdale  Pikes.  It  is  delightful  to  remember  these  moments 
of  far-distant  days,  which  probably  would  have  been  forgotten 
if  the  impression  had  not  been  transferred  to  verse.  The  same 
observation  applies  to  the  next. 

How  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously  bright 

The  effluence  from  yon  distant  mountain's  head. 

Which,  strewn  with  snow  smooth  as  the  sky  can  shed, 

Shines  like  another  sun  —  on  mortal  sight 

Uprisen,  as  if  to  check  approaching  Night, 

And  all  her  twinkling  stars.   Who  now  would  tread, 

If  so  he  might,  yon  mountain's  glittering  head  — 

Terrestrial,  but  a  surface,  by  the  flight 

Of  sad  mortality's  earth-sullying  wing, 

Unswept,  unstained?  Nor  shall  the  aerial  Powers 

Dissolve  that  beauty,  destined  to  endure. 

White,  radiant,  spotless,  exquisitely  pure, 

Through  all  vicissitudes,  till  genial  Spring 

Has  filled  the  laughing  vales  with  welcome  flowers. 


299 


/ 


"THE  FAIREST,  BRIGHTEST,  HUES  OF 
ETHER  FADE" 

1810-15     1815 

Suggested  at  Hacket,  which  is  on  the  craggy  ridge  that 
rises  be!;ween  the  two  Langdales  and  looks  towards  Winder- 
mere. The  Cottage  of  Hacket  was  often  visited  by  us,  and 
at  the  time  when  this  Sonnet  was  written,  and  long  after, 
was  occupied  by  the  husband  and  wife  described  in  the 
"Excursion,"  where  it  is  mentioned  that  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  walking  in  the  front  of  the  dwelling  with  a  light  to  guide 
her  husband  home  at  night.  The  same  cottage  is  alluded  to 
in  the  "Epistle  to  Sir  George  Beaumont"  as  that  from  which 
the  female  peasant  hailed  us  on  our  morning  journey.  The 
musician  mentioned  in  the  Sonnet  was  the  Rev.  Samuel 
Tillbrook  of  Peter-house,  Cambridge,  who  remodelled  the 
Ivy  Cottage  at  Rydal  after  he  had  purchased  it. 

The  fairest,  brightest  hues  of  ether  fade; 
The  sweetest  notes  must  terminate  and  die; 
O  Friend !  thy  flute  has  breathed  a  harmony 
Softly  resounded  through  this  rocky  glade; 
Such  strains  of  rapture  as  the  Genius  played 
In  his  still  haunt  on  Bagdad's  summit  high;^^ 
He  who  stood  visible  to  Mirza's  eye, 
Never  before  to  human  sight  betrayed. 
Lo,  in  the  vale,  the  mists  of  evening  spread! 
The  visionary  Arches  are  not  there, 
f  300  1 


THE  FAIREST,  BRIGHTEST,  HUES 

Nor  the  green  Islands,  nor  the  shining  Seas: 
Yet  sacred  is  to  me  this  Mountain's  head. 
Whence  I  have  risen,  uplifted,  on  the  breeze 
Of  harmony,  above  all  earthly  care. 


[  301  ] 


"W^AK  IS  THE   WILL  OF  MAN,  HIS 
JUDGMENT  BLIND" 

1810-15     1815 

"Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind; 
Remembrance  persecutes,  and  Hope  betrays; 
Heavy  is  woe;  —  and  joy,  for  human-kind, 
A  mournful  thing,  so  transient  is  the  blaze !  '\ 
Thus  might  he  paint  our  lot  of  mortal  days 
Who  w^ants  the  glorious  faculty  assigned 
To  elevate  the  more-than-reasoning  Mind, 
And  colour  life's  dark  cloud  with  orient  rays. 
Imagination  is  that  sacred  power. 
Imagination  lofty  and  refined; 
'T  is  hers  to  pluck  the  amaranthine  flower 
Of  Faith,  and  round  the  Sufferer's  temples  bind 
Wreaths  that  endure  aflBiction's  heaviest  shower, 
And  do  not  shrink  from  sorrow's  keenest  wind. 


302 


=HAIL,  TWILIGHT,  SOVEREIGN  OF  ONE 
PEACEFUL  HOUR" 

1810-15     1815 

Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour! 

Not  dull  art  Thou  as  undiscerning  Night; 

But  studious  only  to  remove  from  sight 

Day's  mutable  distinctions.  —  Ancient  Power! 

Thus  did  the  w^aters  gleam,  the  mountains  lower, 

To  the  rude  Briton,  when,  in  wolf-skin  vest 

Here  roving  wild,  he  laid  him  down  to  rest 

On  the  bare  rock,  or  through  a  leafy  bower 

Looked  ere  his  eyes  were  closed.   By  him  was  seen 

The  selfsame  Vision  which  we  now  behold. 

At  thy  meek  bidding,  shadowy  Power!  brought  forth 

These  mighty  barriers,  and  the  gulf  between; 

The  flood,  the  stars,  —  a  spectacle  as  old 

As  the  beginning  of  the  heavens  and  earth ! 


303 


"THE  SHEPHERD,  LOOKING  EASTWARD, 
SOFTLY  SAID" 

1810-15     1815 

The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said, 
"Bright  is  thy  veil,  O  Moon,  as  thou  art  bright!" 
Forthwith,  that  little  cloud,  in  ether  spread 
And  penetrated  all  with  tender  light, 
She  cast  away,  and  showed  her  fulgent  head 
Uncovered;  dazzling  the  Beholder's  sight 
As  if  to  vindicate  her  beauty's  right 
Her  beauty  thoughtlessly  disparaged. 
Meanwhile  that  veil,  removed  or  thrown  aside. 
Went  floating  from  her,  darkening  as  it  went; 
And  a  huge  mass,  to  bury  or  to  hide. 
Approached  this  glory  of  the  firmament; 
Who  meekly  yields,  and  is  obscured  —  content 
With  one  calm  triumph  of  a  modest  pride. 


304  ] 


"EVEN  AS  A  DRAGON'S  EYE  THAT  FEELS 
THE  STRESS" 

1810-15     1815 

Even  as  a  dragon's  eye  that  feels  the  stress 
Of  a  bedimming  sleep,  or  as  a  lamp 
Suddenly  glaring  through  sepulchral  damp. 
So  burns  yon  Taper  'mid  a  black  recess 
Of  mountains,  silent,  dreary,  motionless: 
The  lake  below  reflects  it  not;  the  sky, 
Muffled  in  clouds,  affords  no  company 
To  mitigate  and  cheer  its  loneliness. 
Yet,  round  the  body  of  that  joyless  Thing 
Which  sends  so  far  its  melancholy  light, 
Perhaps  are  seated  in  domestic  ring 
A  gay  society  with  faces  bright, 
Conversing,  reading,  laughing;  —  or  they  sing. 
While  hearts  and  voices  in  the  song  unite. 


305 


"MARK    THE    CONCENTRED    HAZELS 
THAT  ENCLOSE" 

1810-15     1815 

Suggested  in  the  wild  hazel  wood  at  the  foot  of  Helm-crag, 
where  the  stone  still  lies,  with  others  of  like  form  and  char- 
acter, though  much  of  the  wood  that  veiled  it  from  the  glare 
of  day  has  been  felled.  This  beautiful  ground  was  lately 
purchased  by  our  friend  Mrs.  Fletcher,  the  ancient  owners, 
most  respected  persons,  being  obliged  to  part  with  it  in 
consequence  of  the  imprudence  of  a  son.  It  is  gratifying  to 
mention  that,  instead  of  murmuring  and  repining  at  this 
change  of  fortune,  they  offered  their  services  to  Mrs.  Fletcher, 
the  husband  as  an  outdoor  labourer,  and  the  wife  as  a  domes- 
tic servant.  I  have  witnessed  the  pride  and  i)Icasure  with 
which  the  man  worked  at  improvements  of  the  ground  round 
the  house.  Indeed  he  expressed  those  feelings  to  me  himself, 
and  the  countenance  and  manner  of  his  wife  always  denoted 
feelings  of  the  same  character.  I  believe  a  similar  disposition 
to  contentment  under  change  of  fortune  is  common  among 
the  class  to  which  these  good  people  belong.  Yet,  in  i)roof 
that  to  part  with  their  patrimony  is  most  painful  to  them,  I 
may  refer  to  those  stanzas  entitled  "Repentance,"  no  incon- 
siderable part  of  which  was  taken  verbatim  from  the  language 
of  the  speaker  herself. 

Mark  the  concentred  liazels  that  enclose 
Yon  old  gray  Stone,  protected  from  tlie  ray 
Of  noontide  suns:  —  and  even  the  beams  that  play 
And  glance,  while  wantonly  the  rough  wind  blows, 
i   liOC   I 


MARK  THE  CONCENTRED  HAZELS 

Are  seldom  free  to  touch  the  moss  that  grows 
Upon  that  roof,  amid  embowering  gloom, 
The  very  image  framing  of  a  Tomb, 
In  which  some  ancient  Chieftain  finds  repose 
Among  the  lonely  mountains.  —  Live,  ye  trees! 
And  thou,  grey  Stone,  the  pensive  likeness  keep 
Of  a  dark  chamber  where  the  Mighty  sleep: 
For  more  than  Fancy  to  the  influence  bends 
When  solitary  Nature  condescends 
To  mimic  Time's  forlorn  humanities. 


[  307  ] 


TO  THE  POET,  JOHN  D\T]:R 

1810-15     1815 

Bard  of  the  Fleece,  whose  skilful  genius  made 

That  work  a  living  landscape  fair  and  bright; 

Nor  hallowed  less  with  musical  delight 

Than  those  soft  scenes  through  which  thy  childhood 

strayed. 
Those  southern  tracts  of  Cambria,  "deep  embayed. 
With  green  hills  fenced,  with  ocean's  murmur  lulled"; 
Though  hasty  Fame  hath  many  a  chaplet  culled 
For  worthless  brows,  while  in  the  pensive  shade 
Of  cold  neglect  she  leaves  thy  head  ungraced. 
Yet  pure  and  y)owerful  minds,  hearts  meek  and  still, 
A  grateful  few,  shall  love  thy  modest  Lay, 
Long  as  the  shepherd's  bleating  flock  shall  stray 
O'er  naked  Snowdon's  wide  aerial  waste; 
Long  as  the  thrush  shall  pipe  on  Grongar  Hill ! 


308  ] 


BROOK!    WHOSE    SOCIETY    THE    POET 
SEEKS" 

1810-15     1815 

Brook!  whose  society  the  Poet  seeks, 
Intent  his  wasted  spirits  to  renew; 
And  whom  the  curious  Painter  doth  pursue 
Through  rocky  passes,  among  flowery  creeks, 
And  tracks  thee  dancing  down  thy  water-breaks; 
If  wish  were  mine  some  type  of  thee  to  view. 
Thee,  and  not  thee  thyself,  I  would  not  do 
Like  Grecian  Artists,  give  the  human  cheeks, 
Channels  for  tears;  no  Naiad  should'st  thou  be,  — 
Have  neither  limbs,  feet,  feathers,  joints  nor  hairs: 
It  seems  the  Eternal  Soul  is  clothed  in  thee 
With  purer  robes  than  those  of  flesh  and  blood. 
And  hath  bestowed  on  thee  a  safer  good; 
Unwearied  joy,  and  life  without  its  cares. 


309 


"SURPRISED    BY    JOY  —  IMPATIENT    AS 
THE  WIND" 

1810-15     1815 

This  was  in  fact  suggested  by  my  daughter  Catharine  long 
after  her  death. 

Surprised  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  Wind 

I  turned  to  share  the  transport  —  Oh !  with  whom 

But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb. 

That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find? 

Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind  — 

But  how  could  I  forget  thee?  Through  what  power. 

Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 

Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 

To  my  most  grievous  loss?  —  That  thought's  return 

Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore. 

Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn,  • 

Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more; 

That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 

Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 


END    OF    VOLUME    V 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


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